Heir of Darkness
by FastFoodFanfiction
Summary: "Will you help me become a Hunter?" "No. I will forge you into something far greater." Salem discovers a young Jaune Arc alone in a forest and sees in him potential for greatness. Mild AU.
1. Prologue

**A/N**

**Fair warning: this story has a number of elements of power fantasy. If you don't enjoy that kind of fiction, this may not be your cup of tea. **

**Later on, there will be elements of smut. Won't turn into a lemon fic, but the story does not ignore sex. That won't be for a while, though. T rating until then.**

**There's are two AU condition which deviates from Canon: Jaune has a permanent illness relating to his lack of a Semblance which hinders his ability to ever become a Hunter. Salem, however, has a solution... **

**Also: Salem retains her original appearance. **

**Prologue.**

Jaune saw in the doctor's eyes a truth as bare as the operating room in which he stood.

"I can't be a Hunter."

The grizzled medic wore a constipated look that might have appeared comical save for the circumstances. Jaune's parents huddled around him, offering tactile comfort with half-hearted hugs. They didn't help.

"Is there any chance of a misdiagnosis?" his father asked, his voice quivering. "Can we run another test, perhaps?"

"Mr. Arc," the doctor sighed, rubbing his brows. "I understand your plight, but the specifics leave little room for doubt. Our machines didn't malfunction because they misread the emissions of Jaune's Semblance. We detected nothing. There is no misrepresenting data which does not exist. Your body is a rare genetic case... there's a hole where your Semblance should be, and all of your body's latent aura is patching up that deficiency. Given the circumstances, unlocking your aura without filling that hole would be fatal. And- I'm sorry, Jaune- but we have no known way to transplant a Semblance."

His mother breathed a pained gasp. "But- but how is this- his parents are both Hunters!" she stuttered.

"To be honest, I haven't heard of a case like this before either." The doctor raised his hands in surrender. "There are, however, one-in-a-million medical deficiencies that occur by dint of sheer bad luck. I'm sorry, but this is one of them."

The worst part was that he _did _look genuinely sorry. Jaune saw pity in the lining of his aged face, in the way his eyes focused on a fixed point in the ground. It was the look of a man forced to crush a child's dreams.

"Can I- can I-"

"No," his father finished. The burly man lowered himself to Jaune's level, emotive blue eyes meeting his own. "I'm so sorry, son." His face contorted into a trembling grimace.

"There isn't a reputable Hunter academy in the world that would accept such a case," sighed the doctor. "It pains me to say this, but it'll be best to begin thinking about other career paths."

Jaune collapsed.

Seven years flew out the window. Seven years of pining, seven years of hearing his father regale him of tales of his own time at Beacon, seven years of a mother's preparation and sibling expectations. Seven years planning exactly what he'd have in his dorm, what his weapon would be, which path he'd pursue, all wiped from existence.

In that instant, June Arc became a nobody.

His parents' words filtered to him in snippets on the ride back.

"- not everyone needs to be one..."

"-can still do great things..."

"you know, I had a friend who didn't make it to Beacon. He's now a regional manager at-"

"Please," he whispered, the beginnings of a migraine pounding his skull. "Please stop. I get it. I... I think I need some time to understand this."

The silence that followed was infinitely preferable to their concerned euphemisms. He couldn't stand that look: the pity, the sadness, the guilt, as though they were looking at a quadriplegic. In some ways, he _was_ a cripple, he supposed.

His whole family had gone to Beacon. His parents, all of his sisters, his grandparents, all admirable Hunters, protectors of the realm of Remnant.

And then he came along. The one male heir. The prodigal son destined to propel the Arc name to greatness.

The weight of the revelation didn't fully hit him. He supposed he was in shock. He didn't know. There was a giant nothing in his chest which expanded and contracted with every heartbeat.

"I think I need some time alone," he whispered. The voice didn't sound his own, but his parents nodded, leaving him through a pale red door. Dimly, he registered that they'd made it back home. As he stood on the doorstep, he imagined the shock on his sisters' faces, their wide-eyed looks as he revealed that their little brother was a failure, that he'd amount to nothing. That he'd be the black stain on their family line.

A pressure built up from his eyebrows. He cried out as it increased, spreading across his skull and fracturing lines of pain through his mind. Unconsciously, he began running, though he didn't know where. Away, he guessed. Away from expectations, away from disappointment, away from life, away from reality. Away from truth.

Cracks burst from his feet as he trampled over autumn leaves, picking up speed as he went. Tears blurred his vision, and he couldn't see the road ahead. He didn't need to. His legs knew the way, weaving a path as fast as he could into the unknown.

Minutes later, the burning caught up to him. He fell, chest heaving, tear tracks curling down his face like spilled milk. "Fuck!" he cried. It was a word he'd heard mother use in instances where she thought he couldn't hear her. It sounded so heavy, so weighty, so appropriate. "Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!"

"My, my," a soft voice whispered.

He looked up.

The woman before him stood wreathed in light. She wore light blonde hair like spun gold above her gorgeous face, her eyes a piercing blue. She stood clothed in a silken gown which stretched to her feet. Jaune didn't know if he'd seen anyone as beautiful in his life. There was an ethereal quality to her, an angelic perfection that transcended the human physique.

"What a dirty mouth for one so young," she laughed.

His face burned. "I- I didn't know there was anyone here! I'm sorry!"

If this lady referred what he'd said to his mother... he didn't dare imagine the consequences. "Something really bad just happened to me," he explained, hoping she'd understand. "I was really mad. I'm sorry, I really am!"

Her laughter sounded of bells. "Don't worry. It's alright. Would you like to share?"

To anyone else, he would've said no, but some combination of her prying eyes, the circumstance, and her appearance loosened his tongue. "Well," he sighed. "I just got told that I'll never be a hunter. _Ever_." He stressed the last word. "I don't have a Semblance, see, and I'll never have aura either, and my parents tell me those things are really important for a Hunter."

"They are," the fairy-like lady confirmed, and his shoulders sagged. As the tears returned, she traced a finger on his chest.

"I can see the absence," she whispered, eyes gleaming. "It's a fascination condition, perhaps unique in all Remnant."

"Great," griped Jaune. "I guess I'm _special_ special."

"No, no... you misunderstand, little one," she laughed, bending down and staring him in the eyes. For a moment, he was lost in that swirling blue. "Your condition could yield greatness."

He blinked. "What?"

"You are a clean slate. Your body is unformed, your destiny not set. Even your Semblance has yet to appear, leaving a maw behind- but that maw can be filled."

"It can?!"

"Perhaps not conventionally," she admitted, "but _I _certainly can."

Was she a fairy? With how she appeared, he'd certainly believe it. "You- you can magic me a new Semblance?"

"It's not that simple, unfortunately."

"What do I have to do? I'll do anything. Anything!"

"Anything?" That glint appeared in her eye again. "What if it means you won't see your family again for years?"

That gave him pause. Then, the pained looks on his parents' faces assaulted him. He closed his eyes, head downturned. "They probably don't want me now anyway."

"I could help you."

A perfect finger lifted his chin to meet her eyes once more. "I could make you strong. I could make you _great_."

His eyes lit up. "You could make me a Hunter?!"

"I could make you into something far greater," she breathed.

Greater than even a Hunter? He didn't dare to imagine it.

"Only, you'll have to follow me."

"To your fairy kingdom?" he gasped, his eyes lighting up. A corner of her mouth twitched.

"Something like that."

He paused, some compelling argument against surfacing in her mind. The lady's eyes had a bewitching quality to them, however, scattering his thoughts until the lone desire remained. Why wouldn't he follow her? The opportunity sounded fantastic.

"I'll do it. Let's go."

She laughed again, a sound reminiscent of the morning sky.

"Look me in the eyes," she ordered. He did so without hesitation. As he stared at those crystal blue orbs, his eyelids felt heavy, his body weighed to the floor. He felt bone tired. He wanted to sleep. He _needed_ to sleep. Moments later, darkness overwhelmed him.

/

He came to to _burning_. Flame burning his blood, immolating his limbs. A scream escaped his lips. Thrashing, he screamed again, but something bound his limbs. He opened his eyes. Four leather bonds tied him down to a metallic table much like the operating table he'd been on mere hours before. Through his hazy vision, he could barely make out a man with a large mustache with a clipboard.

"- injected 48 milligrams-"

"Salem's blood... adoption... Semblance creation..."

"World... time... Grimm... losing, losing-"

Black again.

The world swam. Time seemed immaterial. He could've been in this state of befuddlement for hours or seconds. Nothing made sense. Groaning, he tried to sit up, and was surprised to find that this time, nothing inhibited him.

Where was he?

He blinked.

Who was he?

Something about a clipboard, something about disappointment. He didn't remember.

His name. What was his name?

Wrenching free, he sprawled onto the ground. He couldn't remember his name. He couldn't remember his name!

"Ahhh!"

For a second, he didn't realize the voice was his own. It was so melodic, so light. Had his voice always been like that?

The room in which he stood appeared nondescript. An operating table, a sink, a few tools in a neat row beside it. A full-length mirror stood to his left. Turning, he inspected himself.

A stranger stared back. Was this what he'd always looked like? He didn't know. His memories seemed murky, as though shrouded in some impenetrable mist.

The figure which stared back at him was achingly beautiful. Sheer black hair, pale skin, crimson eyes. Its face- _his_ face- was a flawlessly beautiful visage, as though some master sculptor had carved its features from sheer marble and whittled until all imperfections disappeared. Angelic. Cherubic.

This was him?

"Hello."

He turned.

A blonde woman stared back at him, her beautiful features strikingly similar to his own.

Who was she? She seemed vaguely familiar. He recalled feeling trusting of her, feeling warmth in her presence.

"Who are you?" he gasped. "Who am I?"

"You are Jaune Fall," she smiled. "My name is Salem, though you may call me mother."

"M-mother?" the word tasted funny to him. "Salem?"

"Yes," she laughed. "I understand you may be feeling confused. You've just undergone a complex medical procedure, and it may take some time to get your bearings."

"Er..."

"Come with me."

She turned and left the room through a side door, looking over her shoulder with a brilliant smile. Jaune didn't know what to do. She seemed trustworthy enough, he supposed, and a part of his mind still harbored good feelings to her from some undefined point in his past.

"You're my mother?" he tried again, following her footsteps. "I- I can't remember much. It's all so hazy."

"I will feed you, I will clothe you, I will look after you, I will teach you, I will protect you," Salem smiled. "But more than that, I _love_ you. I _love _what you can become. We share blood. Can you feel it?"

It was true. Something in him thrummed like two strings in harmony, producing something concordant, something that belonged. They even _looked_ alike. "Mother?" he whispered.

"Mother," she confirmed with a grin. "Come along."

They followed a cobblestone pathway of dark stone. Oddly, he seemed to find comfort in the damp and the dark; it shrouded him in a safe veil.

A few turns later, and they approached a pure white door, its handle a metallic sheen. It opened to admit a tall, mustached man, the same one he'd seen in a haze earlier.

"This is Doctor Watts," Salem introduced. "Although his expertise lies in mechanical areas, he's more than capable of medical feats as well. He will be testing you for any irregularities regarding your Semblance."

"Semblance?"

"Of course," his newfound mother giggled. "Would you like to show us?"

He blanked. Semblance? He knew the word. It was still tied to an aching hollow in his chest. It was something he didn't have.

"Feel," Salem whispered, her voice hypnotic. "Sense. Express. _Release_."

Closing his eyes, he tried. He really did. Nothing happened.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't-"

The scene before him cut his own words off.

Mother and Doctor Watts began spazzing. They moved slowly and then quickly and then slowly again. Her words warped between high-pitched and low, as though transmuting through some strange substance.

Backing away, he tried to control his breathing. Stop. _Please stop. _

Something warped in the air. Everything returned to normal.

"That, dear," Salem breathed, her face lit up in an almost feral grin, "was your Semblance."

"I... I make things glitch?"

She chuckled. "No. You manipulate _time_."

Kneeling down, she held his palm in her own. "But you were spazzing everywhere!" he gasped.

"No, _you_ were," she replied. "We appeared to move irregularly because your panic increased and decreased time around _your _body. I'd have thought your ability would relate to... my specialties... but I suppose this figures to be a cruel joke."

Her laugh didn't sound real. "The Gods' curse of immortality, time-defiance, stretching even to my blood. And now, _your_ blood."

He didn't understand much of what she said, but a part stood out to him. "A _joke?_"

"She wasn't talking about you, child," the man, Doctor Watts, said, his lips forming a habitual sneer.

"Your ability is anything but," Salem confirmed. "This... this is _extraordinary_. The applications of such a Semblance should prove more valuable than any Grimm-related."

A peal of her laughter shook the room. "We shall become quite the pair."

Jaune wasn't sure what had just happened, and his very identity seemed a bit hazy. He knew, though, that here, he mattered, he belonged. This nice lady with whom he seemed to share both blood and appearance had given him something amazing. Even now, he could feel the air slowing around his palm at his will, the breeze moving between lazy and fierce at a moment's thought.

He was given a chance. Although he didn't fully trust or understand his new mother, he supposed he could give her one as well.

/

They ventured down the corridor, which opened to a massive space. Obsidian walls stretched as high as the eye could see, filtered at the edges with stained glass windows. Coffin-shaped purple tables filled the distance at regular intervals, and the chairs beside them held motifs of worn stone.

"Wow," Jaune breathed. "It's beautiful."

"It is," Salem agreed, leading them farther and farther. "I designed much of it myself, molded it from the darkness. There's a sublimity to it, is there not?"

He didn't know the word, but nodded all the same.

"We're not far from our destination. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

/

Cinder Fall thought herself prepared for anything. She'd destroyed armies at a breath, turned cities against themselves, and prided herself on having the knowledge to both control and confront every situation.

When Salem, Queen of the Grimm, dropped a seven year old child at her feet, however, she was at a loss for words.

"You will take care of him," she commanded. "You'll see to it that he has the necessary shelter and sustenance."

"...Me?" she croaked.

It seemed akin to smashing a nail with a brinks truck. Were there no sledgehammers available? Was spending time smashing nails truly the best use of the truck's resources?

But Salem seemed set on the idea, and here she was, lugging along a child. The boy bore a striking resemblance to her master, his bone structure eerily reminiscent of hers. Even now, she could tell he'd be a heartbreaker when he grew older. She hoped she wouldn't still be stuck with him then. He'd be insufferable.

"Here are your quarters," Cinder gestured at a spacious room as they traversed up a winding staircase of black metal in a spire of the castle. The room included all necessary modern amenities, a showering area, grooming and sanitation equipment, even a Dust-powered entertainment system.

"Come to meals at the appropriate times." She turned to leave.

"W-wait!" he called, his voice almost annoyingly melodic.

She turned crossly. "What?"

His pout, reaching up to two beautiful somber eyes, almost melted her then and there. _That face is a weapon_.

"You're just going to leave me here? All by myself?"

"Yes," she snapped. "I have neither the time nor the inclination to take care of some- some-"

His frown had well and truly reached his eyes now, which started to water.

She gave.

"I'll help you settle in, and I'll ask a servant to deliver clothes to your room," she conceded. "Here-"

Cinder Fall, criminal mastermind, spent the rest of the afternoon giving an extended room and castle tour to a timid child. She felt like an idiot, but his frown was gone, and somehow that made it worth it.

/

At dinner, Salem- or, mother- introduced a slew of new characters to him. There was Doctor Watts, whom he'd already met. He'd be teaching him coding literacy and machinery, apparently. Hazel Rainart, an imposing, giant man, covered combat classes. Her other associates included Cinder, who he'd come to regard as de facto caretaker, and Tyrian, a strange, scorpion-tailed man who gave him the creeps. Thankfully, the he didn't appear to have much to do with the scorpion faunus. They didn't stay for dinner.

Meals were prepared and served by faunus, often teenaged, who moved about with hunched figures and closed eyes. They were surprisingly scrumptious, at least in reference to what he was used to. He frowned. What _was_ he used to? The memories wouldn't come to him, like liquid falling through his fingers.

"Jaune," called Salem. He looked up. The two of them were the only ones in the room save for the occasional stooping servant.

"Yeah?"

"How are you enjoying the meal?"

"I like it. I've never tasted some of these flavors before... they're really nice," he smiled.

"We have some of the finest chefs in the world to prepare our meals. They've been hired from some of the best restaurants in Remnant under contracts of confidentiality."

Jaune chewed slowly, a thousand thoughts flying through his mind. He hadn't yet organized the hurricane of new experiences and questions that had inundated him. There were so many questions. Which to ask first?

As if reading his mind, Salem smiled and asked, "You must have a lot of questions. Perhaps I can assuage some doubts? Feel free to voice whatever you'd like. I don't mind."

He paused.

"Who am I? Who are you? Where are we? Why am I here? Why can't I remember anything?"

A peal of laughter rang through the room.

"That's quite the deluge." She took a napkin from the table and dabbed at her lips. "You are Jaune Fall. I am Salem, a queen of magical creatures called Grimm. You're here because you were lost alone in a forest and you called for help. I extended a hand. Unfortunately, the only way to grant your wish involved muddling your past memories. I've since officially adopted you both in name and by blood ritual. For all intents and purposes, you, Jaune, are my heir."

"I had to forget everything to come here?" Jaune frowned. Something seemed off about that, but Salem nodded. "An unfortunate circumstance. Child, you were born with an unusual and permanent condition. The cure required a specific set of circumstances that could only be met by such a result."

Something didn't quite add up, but he decided not to pursue the point. He settled on asking a simple "Why?"

"Because I care about you," she said simply, her tone dead serious. "I see in you potential for such greatness, such strength. I want to help you. We're bound now, you and I; we share a mark of blood. I did this not only because I believe in you, Jaune, but also what you can be. What you _will_ be."

Something in him warmed at her words. She truly did mean what she said. He could tell. He wasn't sure what compelled him, but he trusted her to take care of him, to mentor him.

"Salem?" he whispered.

"Please, call me mother," she replied, a gentle smile on her face.

"Mother," he amended. "Why do I need to be strong?"

A pause.

"Strength, child, is what moves the world," she said. "Strength allows you to fulfill your dreams and achieve your visions. I have a dream about saving the world, about removing all of the ugliness that stains it and reforging it anew and perfect. For now, I'll be glad to nurture you for the mere joy of watching your success. I... I was a mother once, before... I would like to be one again. Failing that, I want to be your friend, Jaune. These castle walls can become awfully lonely. You don't have to fight for me, or even agree with my cause. But I see a spark of something great in you. I'd like to see that realized."

Despite himself, he found himself agreeing.

"I- I think I want that too."

Then, hesitantly-

"Mother."

**A/N **

**To be clear: Salem isn't suddenly some goody two-shoes. She's a master manipulator, and her words should be taken in that context. As for her appearance... I hope I'm allowed some mild AU. I don't think Jaune would be nearly as taken with a pale monster.**

**Note: I've modified this so that Jaune's condition is more than just having no Semblance, since the AU conditions I've previously set for Semblance and aura growth were mentioned in one line and so were easy to skim by. **

**I'll continue work on both this story and Paragon. Ty to reviewers, followers, faves! **


	2. Book 1, Chapter 1

**A/N **

**Book 1 (this book) is meant to cover his childhood up until Beacon. I'll try to aim for 4.5-5k words per chapter, so this one was slightly shorter than I'd have liked it to be. **

**Thank you for the reviews, follows, and faves! To address a few: Zenith, I completely agree. Salem isn't completely evil, though that is an intrinsic and core aspect of her personality. She, too, can be kind. **

**Ty to March2Dis and Arrogant Comprehender for the kind words as well. Personally, I think Arkos is the most criminally underused ship in RWBY fanfiction, and I plan to incorporate it into one of my fics, either one I'm currently writing or in the future. The problem with Pyrrha Nikos is that she's written as almost perfect. She's essentially Mary Sue, except she's lonely. She doesn't have Blake's intriguing secrets, Ruby's adorable fluffiness, Yang's teasing personality, or Weiss's Snow Queen shtick. **

**She's the even-keeled one, and that doesn't spark much interest. I'd like to show that it can, though. I promise nothing in terms of ships for either this fic or my other fic, but it'll happen. Eventually. **

**Now, on to the chapter…**

**3 days later… **

Sweat beaded Jaune's brow as a blade bore down upon him. The sword in his own hand sought to fit into calluses that weren't there, and the weight remained foreign in his palms. Nevertheless, he brought the blade up to block, angling its hilt and planting his feet for maximum blocking power.

The strike clanged off of his defense, though it sent tremors down his arms.

"Good," Hazel breathed, returning the sword to his side. "You learn fast. Perhaps it's time to introduce more fundamentals."

They stood in a circular room with the signature stained glass windows of the Castle casting a purplish hue over them. They'd been training for the past three days in the same room, the maudlin backdrop of black sky hovering over them.

"Unarmed combat," the giant man continued, shedding his sword and motioning for Jaune to do the same.

"We shall focus on your swordsmanship first, but you must be prepared when you need to fight without it. Show me a fighting stance."

Jaune assumed one he'd seen professional Hunters use on television, his arms high up to protect his face and his legs spaced apart. Hazel hummed. "Not bad."

He readied his own stance. "I will use 10% of my power," he said. "Try to last 30 seconds. Do not use your Semblance."

Gritting his teeth, Jaune settled down in preparation.

Hazel advanced at walking pace, his arms slightly lower than Jaune's. As soon as he stood a few feet out from what Jaune judged to be striking range, he stepped in and threw a quick overhand right. In almost a spazzing movement, Jaune moved to block, forming a protective wall with his arms.

He didn't even see the next strike coming. Something hard caught him right in the stomach. He collapsed, wheezing, nausea sweeping over him. An acute pain shot up from his side, and movement only exacerbated the pain. Without his aura to cushion the damage, Jaune instinctively knew the blow would've broken something.

"When defending the head, never neglect the body," his instructor intoned, settling back. "A direct shot to the liver can be as devastating as a blow to the chin."

With a gasp, Jaune heaved himself back up, his hands a little lower. Hazel raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment.

The next series of strikes began in exactly the same manner. Overhand right, other hand strikes to the body— though Jaune stepped back, avoiding the strike.

But the older man was already in motion, flowing into a blow. He tensed, bringing his arms up, before Hazel stopped his punch mid-motion and swung his hand back. Following his own momentum, the man spun and shot a spinning back kick directly into Jaune's solar plexus.

He dropped like a rock.

"You're learning," Hazel commented, pacing around as Jaune struggled for air. A flash of haze filled the boy's gaze as he stood again, swaying on his feet.

"One more round, perhaps. Then a break."

He wanted to get stronger, Jaune reminded himself. He wanted to protect himself. He wanted to prove to his adoptive mother that he'd live up to her expectations, that she shouldn't discard him. That he mattered.

Hands up, one hand in front, legs spaced a shoulder's width apart. The assault came, though not in sequential order.

Blow to the body. Blocked with elbow. Uppercut. Stepped back. Jab, Jab, Straight. Blocked, blocked, slipped.

A grin suffused across his face. He could _feel_ himself improving, becoming stronger, becoming greater. As he grasped more, greater power beckoned to him from beyond the horizon, urging him to claim it.

"Astounding," Hazel breathed. "You have a talent for fighting, boy. Let's try to find your limit."

The giant advanced upon him, and Jaune instinctively gave ground, focused purely on the defensive. When he stepped back to avoid a punch, his heel hit the wall. Not good.

Grinning, Hazel unleashed. Jab, straight. Jab, straight. His body contorted and moved as he did so, punching in simple one-two combinations that Jaune was forced to meet head on.

Somehow, he couldn't. He'd slip the jab but eat the punch thereafter, or block the combination but be clipped by the successive one. They flowed like a river, and he could feel his tenuous guard slipping. As the punches slipped through, black spots began to fill his vision.

Desperation mounted. He was going to drop, and he knew it. Something as simple as one-two punches would defeat him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, unfamiliar eyes gazed at him with a pity from a lifetime ago. He imagined Salem or Hazel watching him with those same eyes.

He could not fail. Time slowed. The fists came forth at a manageable pace. The angles to block them became apparent; all he needed was to duck to the left, then shift and bring up his arms—

For all he'd slowed time, he didn't seem the lightning-face palm crack him across his face. The force turned him around as he fell, his body smashing to the floor. He didn't get back up.

"No Semblance," Hazel hissed. Jaune didn't reply. He couldn't. Although his aura worked frantically to restore him, his head felt as though it had been crushed by an anvil. Doctor Watts had informed him that his mother had unlocked his for him during the ritual. Luckily, his reserves were naturally massive, though Hazel seemed to adjust his force with that in mind.

"Your Semblance is a crutch. Using it to calculate angles of attack or deflection will not help you learn. I want your body to suffer so that it remembers what to do. I want this engraved into your very muscles, seeped into your bones, child."

There was disappointment in the man's eyes, sure, but not the kind he'd been expecting. His tutor seemed more upset at his foul play than his failure.

Cautiously, he staggered to his feet.

"Let's take a break," Hazel suggested, walking away.

"No."

His instructor turned, one brow raised. "Sorry?"

Phantom punches swam before his eyes, his mind assimilating the movements, the counters, what he'd do against them. A fire burned in him.

"I don't want a break. I want to get it right."

=II=

"Again."

Water flowed through his fingers and his Semblance activated. It was as though the liquid around his fingers had turned to mud. Other water flowed around it, splashing faster onto the sink below.

Doctor Watts recorded the data on a notebook, humming to himself.

"A fascinating result, to be sure," he said. "The temporal distortion field appears to flow a short radius out from your body as well."

His eyes gleamed. "Now slow it as much as you can. Will the water interact with other water as it does ice?"

The experiments had been continuing for the better half of two hours. Thus far, through tedious trial and error, they'd determined the limits of his speed, the way slowed-down and sped-up objects interacted with other objects, the way his body aged in reference to normal time, and countless other minutae.

Biting back a sigh, Jaune did as he was told. The Doctor cackled at the sight, jotting down more notes. He'd already filled a quarter of a large notebook. The water looked about the same as before to Jaune. Perhaps scientists saw intricacies he could not detect.

"Okay," the Doctor continued, eyeing him like a shiny new toy. "Let's try something new. Can you project your aura outward? Take two steps away from the fountain, and try to achieve the same effect."

Having followed the instructions, Jaune closed his eyes and attempted to affect the stream. Nothing.

"I don't think this is working, Doctor," he sighed.

"Hmm…" The mustached man didn't appear ready to relinquish the idea just yet.

"Try this: imagine your termporal field as a function of your aura, as I suspect it to be. Now project a chunk of that aura outward, and try again."

Frowning, Jaune stretched the comforting gauze around him outward. As it abandoned his body, a chill raced across his skin, though no breeze had entered the room.

With his aura projected outward, his body felt weak and naked, far too unprotected for comfort.

The stream, however, had slowed to a halt at its center, as though a block of ice lay suspended in the current.

"Fantastic!" crowed the Doctor. Jaune hunched over, breathing hard, his aura snapping back to his body like a rubber band. "Taxing? I suppose that's to be expected," tutted the Doctor, jotting more information down.

"I suppose that's all for today, my boy. You are a fascinating specimen, I must say. Treat today as an anomaly. Future sessions will be more educative. I hope you'll forgive an old man his wiles."

"Er… sure," hedged Jaune. It seemed to be the correct response because it elicited a light chuckle.

=II=

Cinder found the boy sitting on a high rise of the castle overlooking the Land of Darkness. His legs dangled over the ledge while his body lay farther back in almost repose, two crimson eyes scanning the landscape. To her surprise, she didn't see fear nor horror in them, more a calm appreciation.

He looked up as she approached and sat down next to him.

"What do you think?" she asked, lowering his legs over the ledge and assuming a posture like his own.

"I… like it," Jaune said slowly. "It's beautiful, isn't it? And so peaceful. Something about it warms me. I feel like I… I belong here."

Whether such words had ever been uttered about the barren wasteland that was the Land of Darkness, Cinder didn't know. Kept in a state of perpetual dusk, it housed nothing but prowling Grimm and jagged purple gemstones, manifestations of dark power jutting from the ground. Beautiful?

Perhaps only to Salem. And now him, she supposed.

"I meant about here," she clarified, looking at him. "This place... this situation."

For a moment, he was silent.

"I still don't get a lot of things." When he finally spoke, his voice neared a whisper. "It really bugs me that I can't remember who I was or what I used to be like… Doctor Watts tells me I was an orphan living in the woods and that mother saved me, but I can't help feel like there's something else. Something more."

A revelation equal parts heartening and disturbing. Curiosity about one's past was human nature. In this instance, however, it introduced niggling doubt which, if not assuaged, might grow to more dire proportions. How to squash this bug?

"You had a family," she began. His head snapped up. "Your parents and you lived alone in the woods. One day, you were attacked by a gang of humans. Your parents fought them off so you could escape."

His eyes widened, but he didn't speak.

"I know because I visited the house," she lied, her voice soft. The blood, the markings, the brutal fashion of weaponry… only humans could be so callous."

Silence stretched between them. Cinder doubted he'd be too cut up by the story given that he barely remembered his parents. An ingenious solution by Salem, really, to inject amnestic solution into the boy before the process began.

"I'm a human, aren't I?" he whispered. "And you are, too. And so is Hazel and Doctor Watts."

"Like in all things, there are good and bad," Cinder conceded, twirling a locket of her hair with one hand. "Make no mistake: some humans are superior to others. But there are far more like those who murdered your parents. They pillage, steal, kill, and destroy. That is the nature of humanity."

When she looked at him again, his lips quivered, and thin frown lines surfaced on his face. "I don't want to be like them."

"You won't be." Cinder moved close to him and draped an arm around his shoulder, which had begun an uncontrollable shuddering. "I'll make sure of it. _We'll_ make sure of it."

"I don't know why I feel sad. I— I don't even remember them. But I'm sad," Jaune spluttered, wiping a hand across his eyes. "Hug me?" He looked up at Cinder with watery eyes.

Almost as though on instinct, she wrapped her arms around him as he rested his head against her chest. His body twitched every now and again, and she didn't need to look to know that there was a trail of tears descending down his pallid face.

Time passed, though the sky gave no indication.

"What do you think?" Cinder asked once more as his body stopped moving. "Of us," she amended.

"You took me in when I needed help," he said, looking up at her. "And everyone's been so nice to me. And it's such a nice place and— and I feel like I'm meant to be here. I— I like it." His pretty eyes blinked in the purple gaze of an eternal moon. "I want to stay."

"Then you can stay as long as you'd like," Cinder whispered into his hair, a small, victorious smile on her face. Hook, line, sinker.

=II=

"Let me tell you a story," mother said, her blue eyes playful. Jaune, in the middle of gulping down a particularly long strand of noodle, nodded. As usual, it was just the two of them at the dining table, meals separating them. Today's cuisine was Mistralian noodles. He wasn't certain it was his favorite just yet, but it was quickly rising the ranks. Funny how that seemed to change by the day— or even by the meal.

She waited for him to finish before beginning. "Do you know why this land is called Remnant?"

At his silence, she answered her own question. "The world on which we live was created by two Gods— the God of Light and the God of Darkness. They introduced two intelligent subspecies into the world, humans and faunus. Born of dust and blood, they populated the world, spreading and multiplying in large numbers.

It is human, too, to fail. It is human to be arrogant, and it is human to be greedy. They challenged the Gods, believing that they and their numbers could overwhelm sheer power."

She closed her eyes. "Rank stupidity. In the creatures of the world, there is a natural heirarchy of power. One level down is a chasm unreachable by means of any number. The God of Darkness destroyed the human uprising and wiped magic from the land before leaving entirely with the God of Light. This is why we call the world Remnant. It is but a shadow of its former self."

"Why would people attack Gods?" asked Jaune through a mouthful of food. "That seems really dumb."

"It was," his mother laughed. "I was one of them."

"Oh…"

"A grave mistake. But an even graver one would be to live and repeat the mistakes of my past."

She dropped her fork, and met Jaune's eyes. "But not everyone has learned," she sighed. "I am human, though I try not to be. I am a Queen of Grimm, after all, creatures destined to fight human arrogance, destruction, and greed. But most humans lack any such inhibitions."

"How did you become Queen of Grimm, mother?" Jaune asked, perking up. "And can I meet any of them? I saw them from the top of the tower earlier, and they looked so cuddly!"

"They do, don't they?" she laughed. "You will, Jaune, and soon. And how this all came to be… perhaps it's a story for another time."

"Aww…"

"I'll tell you eventually, little one. That's a promise. Now, let's finish these noodles. I believe you're scheduled for training with Hazel in half an hour."

=II=

Hazel Rainart watched the boy go flying through the air for the third time in as many minutes, making a beautiful crescent in the air before tumbling to the ground. Almost immediately, he got back to his feet, eyes scrunching in concentration. Hazel could practically see the calculations running through his mind as he planned a solution.

The boy was a prodigy, and there was no need to teach him as he would any other student. Discovering the principles of martial arts himself would ingrain the ideas into his mind more firmly than only repeated drilling. Oh, he'd drill, of course— but first, he'd learn.

Jaune walked up to him again and grabbed onto the lapel of his jacket, his other hand on Hazel's wrist. Hazel assumed the same position.

Striking was only one aspect of unarmed combat, after all. A crucial and too often overlooked component was combat in close quarters. To achieve technical proficiency, the boy would have to learn how to fight both when wrestling an opponent and when grappling on the floor.

This time, his footwork became more precise. His legs were bent and spaced far apart, providing a nice base. A good start, and clever deduction on how to stop Hazel's move. Unfortunately for Jaune, Hazel had trained Mistralian Jiu-Jitsu for longer than the boy had been alive.

There was no strength to it. All leverage. Hazel shifted his body to one side, off-balancing Jaune, who leaned just a little to recover. It was enough. Dropping to the floor, the large man planted a stabilizing foot on Jaune's stomach which he used as a fulcrum with which to fling the boy. Screaming, Jaune was thrust almost to the ceiling. Hazel caught him in his descent.

"I think that's enough for now," he laughed, his deep voice booming.

Jaune struggled out of his grip, his eyes wide and sharp. "I want to keep going. I feel like I've almost got it— really!"

"It'll be years before you've 'got it'" Hazel chuckled. "Perhaps learning a few chokeholds and submission holds is more prudent for now. We'll revisit throws later."

There was something in the boy that no amount of training could teach, and it was the most crucial aspect for those in pursuit of strength: hunger. Not a momentary, week-long motivated spurt, but a base, deep, uncomfortable itch to grow and learn. An itch that would never be scratched, only lessening in intensity when soothed but unbearable when left unchecked.

Chokeholds worked through the solidification of aura in the air. They necessitated contact in some fashion, but once achieved, that point of touch became a medium for aura to flow. With correct manipulation and technique, his aura could stifle that of the opponent's or even apply chokes to the body directly.

A difficult skill to learn, but somehow Hazel doubted it'd take long for the boy to pick up.

He settled down to Jaune's height. "Let's begin without aura. I will apply a triangle choke to you until you're a breath from unconsciousness. Remember what I do and attempt to achieve the same to me. Ready?"

Never had he seen someone so eager to be choked out. He smiled. Combining that innate talent with perseverance and the kid's Semblance? He was creating a monster, and he knew it.

=II=

Life was settling into a nice rhythm. Although it had only been three days, the room about him had become much more familiar. He wouldn't call it homely— not yet— but the soft bed, large television, and woolen rug all became fixtures of his evening and his morning. Some part of him had begun to accept the place as his bedroom.

The same was happening with his new life in general. He'd been tense initially, unsure because of the unknown. But his new mother had been nothing but caring, and he noticed the same with Cinder. Although cold at times, she seemed to cave whenever he put on what he deemed "pouty face," and a small part of him giggled internally whenever she did. Hazel, meanwhile, was a teacher with patience, diligence, and a genuine desire to see his student succeed. Although the gruff man might never admit it, Jaune could tell Hazel enjoyed their sessions as much as he did. Doctor Watts… he hadn't gotten to know much, mostly because their 'classes' consisted of tests and excited cackles. But he was sure they'd get along once they got to know each other.

"Home," he whispered, sinking into his bed. What a concept.

A few sharp raps on the door stirred him as he began to drift.

"Jaune?" a familiar voice called. "May I come in?"

"Of course, mother!" he said. The beautiful blonde opened the door and admitted herself, a small smile on her lips. Jaune noticed that she seemed pleased whenever he called her that.

"How has your day been?" she crooned, settling down on the bed.

"Tiring, but really fun," he grinned as she ruffled his hair. "I think I've learned a lot. I can feel myself getting stronger."

"I'm sure you are," she smiled. "It'll only get better from here."

"Really? I like it so much already!"

For a second, she looked taken aback. Then, that familiar, calming smile returned. "Good."

They lay in that position for a while, she cradling his head in her arms and he snuggling up to her chest. She was warm and fuzzy and all things nice, and he found himself growing drowsy.

"Tell me a bedtime story," he yawned.

A pause. Then—

"Once upon a time, there was a brave warrior named Ozma." Her voice carried in a symphonic, somnambulant whisper. "While traveling through the land, he found a mean man who locked his daughter in a tall, scary tower. Ozma was one of few men who remained pure of heart. He fought the father and rescued his daughter. The two would fall in love.

All good things, however, must end. Eventually, Ozma contracted an illness and died. A natural event. His wife, however, could not accept such an end. She was resourceful and cunning, and managed to convince one of the two Creator Gods to resurrect her husband.

The other God, however, disagreed. They fought. In time, one convinced the other that the woman was at fault for wishing her husband back to life.

They sought to teach the woman the importance of life and death, and so cursed her with immortality."

Here, her voice grew shallow. "And to spite her further, they brought her beloved back— though not as he was before. Gone was the innocent, kind, brave warrior of the past. All men corrupt. That is the way of humanity. Even the purest and the kindest souls eventually must fall. And though Ozma could resist temptations most men could not, Death changed him fundamentally forever.

He became scheming, treacherous. He proposed creating a world of filth and hideousness in which humanity's worst aspects would be free to express themselves in whatever means possible. It was in his world that men could kill and steal and lie and cheat, and yet still face shallow consequences."

"So he never came back to life," whispered Jaune, eyes wide. "They killed who he was, and brought back someone he wasn't."

"Clever child," his mother said, ruffling his hair. "Alas. Their disagreement drew a fundamental and unalterable line between them. They went to war, he, by preying on humanity's worst aspects, and she, by combating him."

She turned her head to the window and stared at the broken moon, her hair curling in tresses around her shoulders. "Some say that they battle to this day."

They were both silent for a while after she finished, contemplating her words. "I think bedtime stories are supposed to have happy endings, mother," Jaune eventually muttered, to which she barked a laugh and stood.

"Wait," he called as she walked to the door. Swiveling her head, she glanced at him over her shoulder. "Hmm?"

"That woman… she's you, isn't she?"

The air which hung between them grew heavy with quiet.

"Good night, Jaune."

The door closed with a soft click.

**A/N Time skips will start to become increasingly greater in length. I've mapped out and outlined essentially all of Book 1 already. All that's left is to clickity clack it out. **


	3. Book 1, Chapter 2

**A/N Ty to the reviewer who pointed out that a Semblance isn't technically necessary for Hunter training! I've added a short explanatory paragraph that essentially ties aura growth/ability to Semblance; I've intertwined the two. There have been some characters with undiscovered Semblances, but given that I don't think we've seen a character with literally no Semblance as of yet, I'll forgive myself such an explanation. **

**Strangely, the reviews aren't showing up in the reviews section despite the review count going up, so I'm unable to reply to any others for now. Please continue to leave them, though! **

**One week later… **

Hazel looked different today. Jaune wasn't sure quite how, but the man's face had somehow become more impassive, more stony. Lines appeared on his face where smooth curves should've been. He looked as though he were fighting to keep a grimace off of his face— and failing.

"Choose a weapon," was his first instruction when Jaune entered the practice room. Shrugging, the boy made to collect a practice sword.

When he turned, he noticed the block in the corner of the room. It hadn't been there the night before, and its black cover blended into the shadows.

"Today, we are going to try live combat," Hazel informed him. "Sparring with a resisting partner works well for learning techniques and even applying them. There's something special, however, about a true fight to the death. "

Jaune gulped. "D-death?" Was Hazel aware he'd been training for merely a week? Jaune hadn't managed to get within a foot of even scratching Hazel as of yet. Killing someone? The mere thought made him queasy.

"Don't be dramatic," sighed Hazel. He grabbed at a corner of the dark fabric and pulled.

Beneath the cover was a cage, and within that cage a Grimm. It was a small thing, like a pot-bellied pig, though with bones poking from its body of midnight black. Telltale red eyes gleamed from its face, promising blood and anger. It looked adorable to Jaune save for the frothing at its mouth and the aggressive growls streaming from its snout.

"What happened?" he whispered, kneeling.

"It's rabid," Hazel replied. "It's best to put such creatures out of their misery."

One giant palm closed around the cage lid. "Are you ready?" he asked. The truth spilled from Jaune, unbidden. "N-no. No!"

"There is a place for bloodlust in the mind," said Hazel, his eyes hardening. "This is a necessary process, Jaune. To rip off the band-aid of the first kill done better sooner rather than later. All those who are strong know the utility of bloodlust and know how to control it. Do you want to be strong?"

"Y-yes."

_Clank_.

The thing charged.

He slowed.

He couldn't hold this state for long, and he knew it. A quarter of a minute, maybe, but the speed of the thing had reduced to a good third of what it had been— or, rather, he'd tripled the pace time around himself.

His actions bought himself a few precious seconds with which to think. It was only a few paces away, now. The thing was so small. One well-timed strike to the middle of its head might bring it down. In his mind, the action occurred— a blade flashing in the air, a body falling, falling. Something in his gut jolted at the idea. It would be like cutting down an angry puppy. Gripping the sword until his hands turned knuckle-white, he faced his enemy.

He could do this. He could do this.

The sword flashed—

Those eyes, blood-red, entered his mind. They looked anguished, as though the little thing was being subjected to the cruelest agony.

He couldn't do this. The strike faltered.

And then it was upon him, biting painful chips into his aura.

It leapt at him, knocking him down, running jagged rivets along his body. He tried to grab at it, to keep it away, to stop it from hurting him and itself, but keeping ahold of the thing felt like grabbing an oiled snake.

The assault ended as soon as it had come. Jaune opened his eyes and looked up.

Hazel stared down at him with an unreadable expression. A flicker graced those eyes, though, and Jaune caught it as it passed. Disappointment.

"Somehow, I expected you'd be able to do it," the older man sighed. The beast was replaced in the cage, the black tarp draped back over it. Still, Jaune couldn't move.

A large hand held his shoulder, and he met two large brown eyes. "I don't enjoy failure, but moping I cannot stand at all. Stand, Jaune."

His limbs moved mechanically, as if of their own accord.

"We'll set bloodlust aside. For now, let us go over the fundamentals of quick-draw sword unsheathing…"

As Hazel's instruction flowed through his mind, the image of that tortured Grimm continuously forced its way to the front of his mind. He wasn't sure he managed to learn much for the rest of that morning.

=II=

Gears clanked to a halt.

"We may have to modify the lesson plan if you can't so much as concentrate," jabbed Doctor Watts, pulling up the metal mask obscuring his face. He was crouched over a workbench, attempting to explicate the mechanics of Dust-based weaponry, though half of his lecture went in one ear and out the other.

"I'm sorry," Jaune sighed. "I screwed up something this morning in Hazel's class. I don't think he appreciated it. Now, I'm having some trouble getting over it."

"A good excuse, I'm sure," drawled the Doctor. "Children. Really."

His gloved hands carefully put away the gun-turned-sword he'd been demonstrating, instead pulling out a toolkit, a tub of what appeared to be liquid metal, some condensed shiny stuff, and a mold.

"Rather than learning a useful skill," the man sighed, "I suppose we can work on a little trinket to appease your infantile mind."

Jaune sat up a little in his seat as the man weaved his hands around. No movement was wasted; every action had a purpose building up to some grand creation. Watts worked with pace and dedication, and before long, some product was gestating before his very eyes.

Even watching the man work was like witnessing art. His fingers handled tools like extensions of his limbs, and his eyes worked with an intense and total concentration. Bit by bit, piece by piece, the concoction of seemingly random elements began to take shape, woven into form by dextrous hands and the well-timed revolutions of a metal wrench.

"Ta-da," Watts said, applying the finishing touches. It had to be one of the least enthusiastic Ta-das in human history, but Jaune didn't care.

He held in his palms a snow globe, but more than that— a _Dust_ snow globe. It sparkled and fizzed in the air, swirling down in waves over a small tree and a fake log cabin.

"That's so cool!" Jaune breathed. The doctor raised an eyebrow. "I made it," he said simply, as though that an adequate explanation. "We'll take a brief recess here. Go frolic about or do whatever it is you children like to do for 10 minutes. I expect you to back prepared to learn."

The Castle was a world unto itself. There were always unexplored corridors or side buildings leading to new places. As Jaune wandered through the soft, maroon twilight, he mimed the motion— a straightforward thrust sliding directly between the eyes. Crack. Fall. Death. Simple.

Even in practice, however, his gut revolted, and that familiar nausea overtook him. Was he such a wimp that he couldn't put down one tiny Grimm?

A turn brought him before two large stained glass doors. Almost absently, he pushed them open and stepped out. It took him a moment to realize that, for the first time since arriving here, he'd come outside.

A large courtyard lay before him, with Grimm of all shapes and sizes lounging around a stone fountain spewing strange liquid. Some perked up at his presence, while others continued to languish, resting on cracked pillars or debris strewn across the dark ground. A catlike Grimm stalked up to him, curious, and licked at his palm. He giggled, scratching at it.

Killing such a creature seemed wrong on a base level. To raise the blade, to call himself the arbiter of life or death? It didn't square. Killing, to him, was like using a fork to ladle soup. The utensil simply didn't suit the action. Humans weren't meant to kill.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

A waft of blonde hair settled down beside him, and pensive blue eyes watched his face.

"Hazel tried to teach me bloodlust and unleashed a small but rabid Grimm on me. I couldn't kill it," he summarized, staring at the cobblestone tiles of the floor. It was the third or fourth summary of the events that he'd given since it happened, and it stung every time he recounted it.

"Of course you couldn't."

Jaune started, and his chest constricted in pain. "W-what?" he croaked. Had his mother so little faith?

"You're still a child," laughed his mother. "Killing is one of the most difficult acts a moral person can do. The first time is always the hardest. Would you like a tip?"

"Sure…"

"Don't think about the person you're killing when you do the act. From the moment you decide you'll do the deed, they cease being living creatures; they become puppets which imitate one. Once you kill once, you'll realize it isn't so bad. There isn't some cosmic fanfare or judgment from above that taints you. It's like any other act. Imagine cutting a watermelon with a knife, and now cutting through skull. They are, in truth, no different.

Think about what you're fighting for when you kill. Think about the world we'll create together. Think about the beauty you're working towards building. Think about Cinder, about Hazel, about Watts, about me. If you realize you're performing a necessary act to serve a greater cause, killing will become second nature."

He took a moment to mull over her words. "Thanks, mother," he whispered after a pause. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Good." She stood to leave. "Oh— and one more thing— both Hazel and Doctor Watts have abnormally low tolerances for failure, as do I. It is what makes us successful, but it can also be abrasive for those under our jurisdiction. Remember that their disapproval is not necessarily directed at _you_. It's magnified by their personalities. Good luck, boy. I know you'll be able to do it."

She left like a mirage, leaving Jaune to contemplate himself in the courtyard.

=II=

Every afternoon for the past few days, Lyra caught an interloper. Someone entered the castle library while she was dusting. Only Doctor Watts ever visited the place; although beautiful in gothic fashion, it was tucked out of the way and held mostly research texts. No leisure reading here.

Which was all the more surprising when she found a boy browsing through it a few days earlier. Dressed in black-and-white garb, he fit perfectly in the motif of the room, though why he'd be browsing through _Introductory Biomechanics, 8th edition_, was beyond her.

He looked like a doll, pale skin without blemishes and a mop of pitch black hair. Then, as though sensing her gaze, he turned, caught her eyes, and smiled.

Lyra could swear her heart stopped. Her brain fizzed out. That face— those eyes— If an angel walked the earth, that was what she imagined he'd look like.

The boy had long since gone back to his studying when Lyra metaphorically picked herself off the ground. Too late, she realized she'd left her jaw slack, openly gaping at thin air. She snapped it shut, face blazing. What was wrong with her? She'd seen handsome boys before. What made her turn into a blubbering mess now?

Back to dusting. Forget that face, those gorgeous crimson eyes…

She found herself taking furtive glances at him up until he left.

As she prepared to finish her dusting, she figured it out. He was like a prince in one of her fairy tales, complete with the clothing, posture, and looks, and she the peasant Cinderella dusting before the ball. She enveloped herself in the tale, wrapping herself in myth. If he were a prince, did that make her a princess?

=II=

He was sad. Sitting at a darkwood desk, his head planted on the desk, the book in his hands long forgotten… Lyra could tell the signs. So, before she could stop herself, she walked up to him and sat down.

"H-hi," she said. He looked up. Their eyes met.

"I'm Lyra." Somehow, she felt a little lightheaded. "I'm 10 years old, and I work in the library. Nice to meet you."

She cringed as she said it. What was she doing, giving this stranger her autobiography?

"I'm Jaune," he replied, and his voice was exactly as she'd imagined it to be. "Nice to meet you."

"N-Nice to meet you too. You kinda looked down so I thought I'd come over… er… um… maybe you'd like to talk to someone?" she finished lamely. Her face was burning, but he didn't seem to nice.

"Well," he sighed, "I screwed up today. I think I disappointed someone who cares about me because of it, too. I feel like I should be able to do something, but I can't. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah," she breathed. A lie. She wasn't sure what he meant at all, and he was being so vague she could hardly form a clue. It didn't help that her mind blanked out every time he looked her in the eyes.

"Sometimes, I forget to do stuff and screw up too. Just the other day, I forgot to clean a few plates, and my boss shouted at me for like half an hour!"

He laughed at that. At her. She quailed a little. But at least he wasn't sad anymore, right?

"I guess we can be failures together."

At that, she bristled a little. "Hey! We're not failures. We're just two people who haven't succeeded yet. If we keep trying, I'll bet you anything we'll get it done!"

"You think so?" he asked, looking up at her.

"I know so," she replied, still a bit heated.

To her relief, a small smile began spreading across his face.

"Thanks for that," he breathed. "I don't really have anyone to talk to, see. You're right. It really does help to talk to someone."

"N— no problem," she stammered, staring at the table, red creeping up her cheeks.

"Oh— by the way— how come I don't see you around?" he asked. She blinked. "Huh?"

"I walk around these halls a lot, and I barely see anyone. I feel like I'd remember you if I saw you."

She practically fell off her chair at the second sentence, but forced herself to compose herself.

"Er… well, I live in the lower levels of the castle, see? I don't really come up higher because we're not really supposed to."

"You're a servant." He said the words slowly, as though he's come upon a revelation.

"Y-yeah. Aren't you?" What a stupid question. Of course he wasn't. She could tell just by looking at the clothes he's wearing.

"I just kind of live here," he answered, shrugging. Then, his eyes widened. "I should probably get back to my Biomechanics book… Doctor Watts wants me to have a basic understanding before dinner, and this stuff is complicated."

It didn't take a genius to tell she was being dismissed. "See you around, Jaune."

"See you! It was nice talking to you!"

_It was nice talking to you_. The phrase buoyed her, lightening her feet as she strolled out of the library. She felt like humming a little song.

"What. Was. That?" a voice hissed.

A hand slammed into the wall in front of her, and she yelped. Standing before her was a pretty faunus girl a year or so older than her with eyes like daggers and two bear ears.

"Sorry?" she whispered.

"What were you doing, talking to _him_?"

"Hey!" she crossed her arms. "I— I can talk to whoever I want to."

The other girl laughed, her tone grating as it echoed. "Do you know who he is?" she hissed. "He's the Queen's _son_."

All of the blood drained from Lyra's face.

"Oh."

"You're just a little servant girl. What do you think will happen? You'll never even become _friends. _You're a nobody. I mean, just look at him." She glanced over to the reading boy with an appreciative gaze. "And look at _you."_

She spat the word with venom as she glanced over Lyra, her mouth wrinkling in disgust.

In spite of herself, Lyra could feel tears wetting her eyes.

"Know your place, idiot."

The girl left and Lyra collapsed, curling her knees into her chest and hugging herself into a small, sad ball.

Tears came to her, unbidden, but she tried her best to force them away. She couldn't cry. Not here, and not because some mean girl decided to shout at her.

But some niggling part of her questioned if there was some truth in the harsh words.

What was she thinking? She was no Cinderella. She was just another servant girl. Just another nobody.

The tears came, but she forced herself to run away and down several flights of stairs before the bawling truly began. Because why should she bother a prince with the cries of a useless, ugly, stupid servant?

=II=

Jaune hummed cheerfully as he made his way to dinner. He'd made a new friend! He hoped he'd see her at the library tomorrow. She seemed really nice and caring, exactly what he'd needed when he was feeling so down.

Stone hallways caved to obsidian doors, and soon he found himself seated across from mother. Dinner had yet to arrive— it'd take a good ten minutes or so, he guessed— which gave them a pleasant reprieve in which to chat.

"What do you know of the White Fang?" she asked as he took his seat. White Fang… the name was vaguely familiar.

"Animal enthusiasts?" he guessed, which drew a light laugh. "Close. They're a faunus rights group. Peaceful, for now, though soon— very soon— they won't be. Faunus across Remnant have been second-class citizens for years. They can only take so much sign-waving and flyer-distributing. Soon, they'll turn to violence."

"That's awful."

"You'd think so," his mother agreed, resting her face in the palm of her hand. "But even rabid animals have uses. To be successful, Jaune, you must use all resources at your disposal. Cage the rabid animal and drop it near your enemies, for instance. All things under your control have value, and should be used as such."

"You control the White Fang, mother?"

"Hmm… control is too strong a word. I exert _influence_ over them to a significant degree. I can nudge them in directions I'd like. But enough about that. Would you like to meet a true member of the White Fang?" She leaned forward as she offered, dropping her arms to the table and clasping them together in a businesslike manner.

"Err…."

Interacting in close quarters with a member of a group about to turn terrorist seemed a dangerous prospect. Since arriving to the castle, however, Jaune had been quick to learn that mother always had a plan. When she offered, she did so with layers of contingencies and safety nets.

"I guess?"

"Perfect. Be forewarned— he's a traitor to the cause, someone who has killed wantonly and with relish. For years, he's been a rogue agent, causing terrible destruction in the name of faunus equality. Don't worry," she added, catching the look on his face. "He'll be bound. But I think it's important we expose you to the crueler depths of humans and faunus alike."

The latter half whitened his face and scraped out what remained of his appetite. His mother must have noticed, because she laughed. "Perhaps discussing this _after_ dinner is more prudent. Ah, here it comes now! Steamed prawns— your favorite."

Either the chef had lost his touch or there was something off with his taste buds, because it tasted like cardboard. Everything he ate that night did.

=II=

A layer of one-way glass insulated them from the man. Jaune couldn't tell what kind of faunus he was, but he sported some lanky tail that had been shredded to such an extent that it rendered whatever species to which it had once belonged unrecognizable. A suffocating black bag had been placed over his head, and ropes tied to his arms and legs so that he appeared some sort of bound scarecrow. The slight rising and falling of his chest was the only indication the man was alive at all.

"A rogue White Fang member who has murdered over 20 people— men, women, children— without any higher purpose than sheer enjoyment. Despicable to the highest order," his mother spat. Involuntarily, he shuddered.

"If you don't want to watch this, you may leave," she whispered.

"Does— does he have a name?"

"No. Nobody you kill has a name. Nobody who deserves to die deserves a name. A name gives them character which they do not have."

The image of the frantic Beowolf rose to the forefront of his mind, the beast lunging and thrashing, intent on killing him. The heavy sighs of Hazel, his two disappointed eyes washing over him.

"I'll watch," he said in a voice so small even he barely heard it. It's enough for his mother.

With practiced grace, she unlocked the door and stepped inside. The faunus must have heard it because he began to flail, his arms jutting around in frantic attempts to break free. He was panicked, frenzied, twisting in every which direction.

Until his mother stepped forward and placed a hand on his forehead. He dropped, sagging against the seat, all of his muscles relaxing at once.

In death, he appeared almost at peace.

No acid reflex triggered within him, no gut punch to the stomach. He wasn't sure what it was about this presentation— perhaps the mask covering the faunus' face or his lack of a name— but the process appeared almost humanizing. Kind. A welcome respite from a hard life.

"Death," his mother intoned as she stepped back out of the room, "is a tender mercy."

=II=

Four of the most dangerous people on Remnant sat around a long table discussing a certain boy.

"He progresses fast. Even by observing his movements, it's clear he has a fighter's body and a fighter's instincts. A natural. I'm sure that, given a few years, he'll be a dangerous weapon," Tyrian reported, his gruff voice reverberating throughout the room. "His semblance only heightens his utility. When he masters that aspect, his fighting style will become truly unpredictable. It'll only serve to increase his potency."

"As for me, I haven't a point of reference," sniffed Doctor Watts. "I've hardly tutored young children before. I suppose he understands some concepts. He does not appear dull_, _if that's any consolation. In a few months, when he begins practical work, perhaps I'll form a different opinion."

Salem nodded. "And you, Cinder?"

"When he arrived, he was visibly tense. He'd flinch when addressed suddenly, and never truly loosened, even in the comfort of his own bedroom. Now, I think he's close to accepting this place as a new home. It's easy to forget, but the child is only seven. He latches onto warmth, comfort, and security as any child does."

"Which you have provided in adequate proportion, yes?" Salem turned a questioning eye to Cinder, who nodded. "To the best of my ability, my queen."

"Very good." Turning away from them, she allowed her eyes to graze the horizon beyond, though her mind remained firmly on the child.

"I have begun the process of inoculating him to murder," she whispered. "By first presenting a dehumanized figure, I've disconnected targets from what he considers people."

Her words carried a smug satisfaction. "Hazel?"

"Yes, my queen?"

"Test the boy with the rabid Grimm tomorrow. I expect different results. Should his training progress, he may become useful faster than we'd imagined. Dismissed."

As the three other occupants stood and filed from the room, Salem closed her eyes, a small smirk forming on the edges of her lips.

Poor Ozpin wouldn't know what hit him.

**A/N** **Done with another chapter! Yay! **

**Don't worry— not every girl will magically have a crush on Jaune at first sight. Lyra's still a child, and children don't exactly have the deepest criteria for crushes. This kind of thing will taper off as the characters get older. **

**He will still get a good deal of attention from the other sex, though. Comes with the territory.**


	4. Book 1, Chapter 3

**A/N**

**To reviewer: No, Jaune won't be a child forever… his Semblance isn't immortality, it's time manipulation. **

**Ty to all reviewers, followers, faves!**

A dagger, a hilt through a ruby eye, a Grimm carcass nailed to the ground.

Hazel nodded his approval.

=II=

**One month later… **

It was becoming readily apparent to Hazel that he'd underestimated the utility of Jaune's Semblance.

As the boy stood across from him, sword extended before him, Hazel assumed a defensive posture.

"Come."

Jaune was upon him like a hurricane. Any experienced fighter knew how the body worked, how strikes moved, the tells and signs that foreshadowed a slash or a thrust. With Jaune, however, instinct may as well have been thrown out the window.

His body moved fast when it should've been slow and slow when it should've been fast. Every so often, he'd settle Hazel into a tempo, then break it so suddenly and so drastically at just the right time that he'd come within a hair's breadth of scratching Hazel.

He hadn't so much as touched the large man yet, of course. But he was getting frighteningly close at a pace Hazel would've called unsustainable had he not witnessed it sustained for the past month.

Every strike was like the lashing of a cobra, the setup deliberately slow but the follow-through blinding, aided by a brief spurt of time quickening.

Change of speed— one of the most crucial aspects of fighting. To lull one's opponent into complacency and strike to break the established pattern. While some set up such traps over several minutes of careful luring, Jaune attacked like that with every _move_.

Even Hazel, a seasoned veteran of the competitive swordplay circuit who'd dominated his division in his early years, was often caught off guard.

The sword arced in the air for a slicing cut before descending at mach speed. Hazel shifted to defense as the sword stopped, its momentum arresting impossibly in the air, before reversing direction at an equally blinding pace.

Gritting his teeth, Hazel reversed grip and caught the strike on his blade's edge. A man of lesser experience would've been shredded instantly.

"I think that'll do for now," he breathed. "Good work."

Slow applause echoed, but it wasn't from him. A figure silhouetted against the bright hallway behind her walked to the fore.

"Wonderful progress, Jaune," Cinder purred, and Hazel didn't miss how the boy practically swooned at the compliment. "Perhaps it's time to take a field trip."

"Field trip?! To where?"

"Vale," she smirked. "It's time to get you a real weapon."

=II=

Jaune spent most of the trip with his face plastered to the glass window, scanning the ground as they flew by. Cinder chose a standard airship for the journey, nothing excessive. They weren't taking the trip for business. At least, not officially.

The ashy black of the ground gave way to trees. Large ones, more and more, until no black earth dared encroach upon a vast forest stretching before them. Various fauna poked their heads from the trees, animals staring up in curiosity at the passing ship.

The journey was not long, only a little over an hour. Watts had taken the liberty of repurposing the motor with something of significantly higher caliber, and so the ship sailed at speeds far beyond what it'd been designed for.

Soon, the first signs of civilization peeked over the horizon. Little villages with smoke drifting from wooden chimneys. Every now and again, lone Grimm poked out from the treeline, but they grew fewer and fewer in number as human settlements became more and more common.

"This is Vale?" Jaune gasped, staring at the multitude of houses below. "No, silly child," Cinder laughed. "You'll know Vale when you see it."

She was right. Buildings of all shapes and sizes jutted from the ground, growing larger as they approached. All sorts of architectural styles Jaune couldn't identify blossomed next to one another, and skyscrapers towered above at regular intervals. Most shocking, however, were the throngs of little figures bustling to and fro. They were _people_, he realized— and in such large numbers! They must live here all the time. How could they stand being in the midst of such a large crowd for so long? Vale baffled him.

Beyond, he could make out some caste-like structure dwarfing the buildings around it, lancing into the sky.

"Beacon," intoned Cinder, catching his gaze. "An academy for Hunters. Who knows? Perhaps you'll attend too, one day."

"I don't want to be a Hunter," cried Jaune. "I want to stay at the castle and train with Hazel and Doctor Watts and you."

She giggled as she angled her steering stick down for landing. They descended slowly and in spurts, heading to the outskirts of the city. They'd scarcely landed when Jaune jumped out, his face bright with anticipation.

A breath of air filled his lungs. It tasted a bit too sharp, too fresh, and he wrinkled his nose at the scent. It was pleasant in its own manner, but he still preferred the comforting brimstone scent of his mother's castle.

Cinder lead the way, striding forward, and he followed. Every aspect of the ground on which he tread intrigued him: the way the grass, such an unfamiliar sight, fluttered around his feet, the way little gray rocks dotted the ground. No such diversity existed back home.

Soon, the foliage parted before stone. Cobblestone roads streaked in all around, heading for the center of the city. At some, undefined point, they joined a road and then a street. People— humans— wafted in and out, joining the road at intervals. Some pointed, some stared. Hushed whispers enveloped them like a mist.

Jaune wondered why they were pointing. Cinder was beautiful, he supposed, and the dress she wore today looked flattering. "They're staring at you," he whispered, tugging at her arm. "Do people do this a lot?"

"Sadly, yes," she sighed, dragging him down an alleyway and out of sight of the main street. "Though I suspect more of them were talking about _you_, Jaune."

"Me?" he asked, his brows scrunched. "Why?"

All he received in response was an exasperated smile. "Ah. We're here."

Here, apparently, was a series of glass panels with a door situated squarely in the middle. A seal embossed on the front of the door read "Wick Armaments."

"Here," she said, throwing open the glass door and stepping through as though she owned the place, "is where we shall buy you a sword."

To be honest, it appeared nothing like what he'd imagined a weapons store would look like. Everything appeared so… tasteful. Guns and swords lined glass display cases on the walls, and the design and décor followed modern, simple lines. Black and white. A man behind a marble counter greeted them both as Cinder stepped up, fishing a black card from a handbag strapped to her arm.

The man's eyes widened slightly. "It's our pleasure, Ms. Fall. If you would follow me…?"

"Stay here," warned Cinder as she pursued the man's retreating footsteps. "I won't be long. Don't get into trouble, alright?"

Then she, too, disappeared through a pair of black sliding doors.

Idly, Jaune realized that this was the first time he'd been alone and in unfamiliar territory for a while. He could tell he wasn't entirely unattended, though, because the man who'd escorted Cinder away returned not ten seconds later to fix him with a focused stare, as though determined not to let him out of sight.

Shrugging, he settled against a display case. This one featured a pair of coshes, glittering all gold by the light of a white strip on the ceiling. Here, in the main showroom, the exotic and the small were in abundance. The walls seemed reserved for more heavy-duty machinery or blades.

After a few minutes browsing through them and marveling at the edges of sharp swords and the compartments of rifles, however, he began to grow bored.

There were only so many guns he could study before they all started to look similar. Blades he knew somewhat better, but this store seemed to focus on carbon-copying their swords to look the same, all lined up one after another on the wall. Beneath them was a tag with a lot of zeroes. The numbers didn't mean anything to him, but he sensed they represented something expensive.

How long had it been? Five minutes? He looked around. No sign of Cinder anywhere. There weren't many people in the shop. A few were browsing weapons, while a tall blond man appeared to be asking something of the receptionist. Beside him, a pretty blonde girl and a redheaded one beside her were whispering about something. Strangely, they seemed to be looking at _him_.

The blonde shot him a wink as he caught her gaze, while the brunette squeaked, her face reddening, buried her face in the blonde's shirt.

A fascinating dynamic seemed to be developing between them. The blonde rolled her eyes and said something to the redhead, to which the redhead began shaking her head frantically. This only elicited more eye rolls from the blonde. A few seconds later, she began taking strides in his direction.

The brunette squealed again and chased after her, shouting, "Wait! Yang, you can't just—"

"Hi!" the blonde said, walking up to him. "I'm Yang. You're cute. What's your name?"

The girl beside her seemed ready to faint on the spot. Was this how the people of Vale addressed one another?

"Hi!" Jaune greeted. "I'm Jaune. I think you're cute, too."

"Thanks," giggled Yang. To be sure, she _was_ pretty, even prettier than Lyra, who he'd thought was plenty pretty. "My sister wanted to talk to you."

The girl beside her made a sound like a dying seagull. "Why don't you introduce yourself?" Yang continued.

"H-h-hi," the redhead stuttered, looking at the ground, her hands clasped together and her legs twitching. Did she have a fever? Her face looked like a tomato.

"Hiimrubyitsnicetomeetyou!"

He blinked. "I'm Jaune," he replied. "It's nice to meet you, too."

Different cultures shared different greeting traditions, he reminded himself. Was he missing something? Perhaps he should include his assessment of her appearance, just as Yang had done to him. Judging by the way she was staring steadfastly at the floor, however, he wasn't sure. Why wouldn't she look at him? Was he that ugly? That seemed kind of hurtful, to be honest. He settled for asking a question.

"What did you guys want to talk to me about, anyways?"

"Oh, no reason. My sister here wanted to talk to you because she thinks you have really pretty eyes," Yang laughed.

The girl in question squealed louder than any time previous and made a dash for the door. Yang whistled. "I guess I'd better go get her. Bye, Jaune!"

"Bye?"

Vale was a strange place. There was a familiar sigh behind him and he turned to face Cinder, who carried a wrapped, vaguely sword-like shape in her hands.

"Oh, you are going to be _so_ insufferable when you're older."

=II=

As it turned out, Cinder wasn't done with him. "After that display," she'd said, "I think we need to begin a new series of classes."

Said class took place in an abandoned corner of the library in a room he hadn't known existed. Everything within appeared regal, from the gold-lined furniture to a mahogany bookshelf lining the wall with texts in silver cursive font.

He sat on one plush chair, while she took the other.

"Seduction," she began. He almost fell off his chair.

"What do you know of it?"

"Er…" he could feel his face heating up. "Pretty people can make other people do things they want?"

"Close."

Cinder stood and strutted around the room, head held high, her body flaring in a motion both natural and strange. "What do you see?"

Her pose accentuated her butt, and her clothing naturally drew attention to her ample chest and her beautiful eyes. Jaune wasn't sure what he was supposed to be looking for.

"Oh, of course," she sighed, coming to a halt. "You haven't even hit puberty yet. Men have fallen to my knees for less than that strut."

"Seduction is the art of bending a person to your will. It requires either looks, power, or— ideally— both. Luckily for you and I, we possess both qualities in excess. The tools are set. All it takes is the knowledge to use them."

Something about her description didn't sit comfortably with him. "C-control? Like turn them into puppets?"

"No— no. Of course not. Well—" She took a moment to ponder. "Actually, yes. Exactly like puppets. They move when you tell them to and do what you'd like them to. I've gotten a few who'd give their lives to me at a word.

For instance, that girl— Ruby, was it? The way she was staring… a childish impression, no doubt. But if that were developed, inflamed over time? Why, in a few years, you could get her to do almost anything if you played your cards right. It's the sensation of complete and utter control, total domination over another. Intoxicating."

"Uhh…."

Blood drained from Jaune's face. "I… "

Twisting that nice little girl into something else, some sort of puppet? It didn't sit well with him. Cinder must've seen it in his expression, too, because she sighed.

"Although, I suppose it's not for everyone. We will revisit this topic another time. For now, etiquette lessons."

He sagged against the chair, tension spilling from his body into the air. Etiquette. That sounded far more manageable.

=II=

A familiar brown-haired blur raced by him as he made his way to dinner. So engrossed in the thought was he that he almost allowed the lynx-eared figure to slip by. In passing, he caught familiar soft, gray eyes that could only belong to one faunus.

"Lyra!"

His hand caught her elbow as she passed. To his surprise, she wrenched her arm free and dashed down the hallway, head down. "Lyra?" he called again, starting after her. He hadn't seen his friend in days. Her familiar Library shifts remained empty, and when he made visits to the castle's lower levels to inquire further, he never so much as glimpsed her.

And now she was running from him?

Catching up to her was no difficult feat. As she turned a corner, he caught her wrist in a vice grip.

When she turned on him, her face was red and her eyes veined and watery. "W-what do you want?" she hissed.

Her expression almost made him release his grip. Almost.

"Why are you avoiding me?" he asked, frowning.

"I'm not avoiding you."

"Are, too!"

She wiped her eyes with her free hand. "I shouldn't even be here," she mumbled. "I—"

"Of course you should be here!" he roared. Only after he'd shouted it did he realize how loud and emphatic he was being. Her lynx ears twitched as she flinched at his tone. "You're my friend! Why are you running from me? I haven't seen you in days!"

She flinched again, though he didn't know from which part. "F-friend?"

His heart sank. "U-unless you don't want to be…?" It all made sense. Of course she wouldn't want to be his friend. How stupid had he been? The world flipped on its axis. What was he doing, chasing someone down and forcing them to befriend him?

A second later, a body tackled him, a head nestled into his chest, arms wrapped around him. "F-friend," she whispered. When she looked up again, a trail of tears ran down her face, though from joy rather than sadness.

He didn't know what to say, so he hugged her back as she teared up in his arms.

Girls were weird.

=II=

"I must say, I'm pleased by your progress thus far," his mother said over a broth of assorted seafood. "I think we're ready to transition to more heavy-duty applications In combat."

Jaune froze, noodles still sliding off his face and into his bowl. "Does that mean… fighting Grimm? Again?"

"A different kind," his mother corrected. "I'm sure this one will be more… exciting… than the last."

Indeed, that potbellied pig, for all its ferocity, was almost laughably weak. One strike felled it utterly— one strike. Mustering up the will to commit the act had taken far more effort. Hell, even a normal human with a moderate amount of muscle strength would've been able to crack the thing's skull.

His mother, though, sometimes had a flair for understatement. One could never know when speaking to Salem.

"But enough about that. Let's look with an eye to the future. Have you heard of the Combat World Championships?"

"Mother," he hedged, a little queasy. "Surely I'm not going to…?"

The Combat World Championships were Remnant's highest stage of combat. Every four years, each Kingdom would send its most illustrious fighters to compete in a knockout tournament, the winner of which would be crowned World Champion. Unofficially, the tournament crowned the strongest human alive, and the Kingdom which produced the Champion received a massive influx in prestige and economic profit. Previous winners of the competition included the famed fighter Raven Branwen and a young Professor Ozpin of Beacon Academy some years ago in his fighting prime. Any tournament in which Hazel placed second was sure to be a formidable one.

One he had no hope of even placing on the podium.

"Of course not," his mother giggled. "There is, however, a Junior Combat World Championship. Not as prestigious or well-known, but the level of rigor and competition is still high caliber. Cinder placed third in the Under 14 division, but won gold this year in the Under 18 division. It was quite a shock to the four Kingdoms that a hitherto unrecognized and unaffiliated woman claimed the Grand Prize."

Steepling her fingers, she smiled at him. "The next tournament arrives in a little over three years. I fully expect you to win."

"I won't disappoint you, mother." The more he fought, the more the sensation of fighting called to him. There was a great triumph in defeating a stronger opponent. Almost subconsciously, his driving motivator began to shift from a fear of disappointing his newfound family to a desire to win. To be the best. To fulfill that greatness his mother saw in him.

=II=

This time, the cage was a lot bigger. It stacked almost to the ceiling of the room, and even the muffling black velvet cover could not block out the deranged growls which echoed from within.

Jaune readied his blade. It was a pristine thing, all black with a razor-sharp gold trim. Cinder had informed him that it was the best money could buy, and it certainly looked the part.

Heaving his massive arm back in one motion, Hazel ripped the black cover clean off.

In the cage stood a massive creature of ink and bone. Grimm red eyes locked onto him. It was massive, and its every breath sent faint mists curling through the air. Four limbs, heavily muscled, stretched out from a body laced with protective spurs and sharp edges. Its teeth looked sharp enough to slice through steel. If there were ever a perfect killing machine, Jaune imagined it'd be modeled after the Beowolf.

No.

He closed his eyes. He couldn't believe that. Hazel had drilled it into him on multiple occasions. In every fight— no matter the circumstance, and no matter how irrational— he should always believe he will win.

This Beowolf may appear indomitable, sure, but _he_ was the most lethal creature in the room.

With a flick, Hazel thrust the cage door open. It charged him like an angry bull.

Each bound cracked stone. Each second brought it yards closer at a step. As it crossed within paw's reach, Jaune moved.

Time slowed. It appeared as though striding through mud, each movement a laborious and long process. He gave himself just enough time to step in and score a large gash along the front of the thing's head. When time resumed, it reeled back, roaring again, blood spurting along a massive wound cutting jagged crimson across its face.

Although it lacked a soul, it clearly contained some sentience— and that sentience, Jaune knew, was struggling to square how this little creature before it spazzed in front of it and landed a strike without any visible signs of acceleration.

When it turned back to him, its movements became more subdued, assuming a prowling, circling motion. Jaune, however, could smell blood in the water. He blurred into motion.

His swordplay filled the air with silver streaks. Adapted from Hazel's own, it featured a brutal, sharp, and sudden style befitting his unpredictable fighting stance. Every slash drove the creature back, smarting, low whines echoing from its massive throat.

It was failing. Little bit little, blow by blow, he was whittling it down to nothing. As it reeled from one precise strike slicing through its nose, Jaune saw an opportunity. As fast as he could manage, he stepped in, wrenching his blade up—

The most painful strikes are those he didn't see coming.

In this instance, a giant palm flattening him to the floor at mach speed far exceeded his expectations.

His head pounded, and starlight crackled across his vision. What had happened? One moment, he was delivering the fatal blow. The next, he lay sprawled against the ground as his quarry reversed the assault. A moment later, he registered a blow not three feet from his face. Only with liberal use of his Semblance and fast reflexes did he manage to block the shot, though it still sent him flying across the room.

Had the Grimm been faking? Had its last, massive reel been a deliberate plot to reel him in and expose a weakness? It had to be— though Grimm weren't supposed to be capable of such cunning, higher-order thought, right?

"Never underestimate a wounded opponent," Hazel called, his stern tone booming through the ringing in Jaune's ears. "The bloody opponent is the most dangerous. They lose all inhibitions. A fight is never over until you are certain your opponent cannot get back up."

Jaune gritted his teeth. It was a lesson he didn't need repeated to him.

That last blow had sent him flying, sure, but it had also opened a much-needed gap between him and his attacker. The ensuing seconds, stretched fivefold, allowed him to gather himself, ready his stance, and form a preliminary plan even as the Beowolf charged him once more.

It's not over until it's over.

This time, there would be no weaknesses. He charged the Grimm in response. They met half-way, it sweeping a massive, windmilling open-paw smash, while he responded with a diagonal slash stretching across its body.

It wasn't hard to guess which strike landed first.

Even as the Beowolf collapsed backward, trying to stave off the wound, he advanced, adding new shots to its collection of injuries. No relenting. No give.

One final, brutal stab sinking deep into its skull downed the beast.

Its massive body collapsed, still twitching. The impact sent tremors through the ground below.

His breath came in gasps. Only now, after the fight had concluded, did he realize the extent of his injuries from that one blow. His whole right side was flaming, and two thin streaks of blood cut across his ribs.

"A hasty strike in the middle ruined an otherwise stellar performance," Hazel remarked, walking up to him. "Though I suppose killing a Beowolf with only a month's training is not an unimpressive feat."

Despite the double negative, Jaune grinned. In his own, stoic way, Hazel was proud of him. More than that— he'd killed a full-sized adult Grimm! The injuries only added to his euphoria. He'd won. He'd triumphed. He was the victor. He stood on the mountaintop.

If he had his way, this feeling would never end.

Naturally, Hazel promptly doused his enthusiasm.

"Next time? Human opponents."

**A/N So normally I wouldn't introduce OCs for little reason, but Jaune needs a friend his age. More familiar friends will be introduced in short order… **

**As for the tournament: I decided to introduce an AU concept, much like the Olympics but for Remnant, in order to spice things up. One might wonder, why would Cinder gain notoriety on purpose? **

**In some cases, a show of strength is more important than maintaining secrecy. When gathering allies, this is the case. As for how this squares with the main series? **

**In this AU, the Junior Combat World Championships aren't nearly as broadly televised or promoted. Could you name the Junior Olympic champion of any sport? Probably not. They function more as a way to test strength than promote the fighters. **

**Next chapter will involve more of a time skip. The chapter after that even more so. **


	5. Book 1, Chapter 4

**A/N **

**Outside work is piling on… but here's an update. :) **

**I have all of Paragon Chapter 6 outlined fairly extensively and the whole book has been planned out, but I'm having some trouble writing the next chapter. It's a weighty one. **

**So here's another HoD. Thanks to all the reviewers! **

It's easier if it's fast. Don't let him speak. He isn't human. Don't humanize him. Keep your eyes steady, keep your hands steady. He's bound.

He isn't a threat.

Stab the puppet, boy. Stab.

Jaune heaved a shaking breath, his hands vibrating like the wings of a butterfly as he stepped up to the room. It was bare within— all white, no windows. No possible connection to time and space. It was an interrogation room meant to appear as isolating as possible to the individual inside, as though they'd been transported into some alternate dimension of nothing.

Heaving a breath, he stepped in.

How his mother had procured a human serial killer on demand as a test for him, he wasn't sure, but here the man was, all scraggly hair and chipped, yellow teeth. Other than his unkempt appearance, he didn't look the part. His eyes were a little sunken, a little sallow, a little veiny, though most of that could probably be attributed to the fact that he'd been stuck in isolation for the better part of a week.

When Jaune stepped in, breaking the monotony, the man practically leaped. Jaune suspected he would have were his limbs not secured to an iron chair by cast metal chains.

"Fuck yo— hold on."

The man eyed Jaune. "What the fuck?"

Make it quick. Make it easy. Don't talk to him. Don't listen. One, two, stab.

His hands were shaking, and he knew it.

"Hold on," the man said. "Hoooold on."

His eyes darted to the knife in Jaune's hand, then to Jaune's face.

Full-throated laughter echoed through the room. Tears appeared in the man's eyes as he bucked against his seat, stomach heaving, his body racking with guffaws.

"They sent _you_ to kill me? What are you, like 5 years old?"

"Seven," Juane gritted.

"Ooh, seven!" the man mocked, then burst into laughter once more. "You can't be serious. Are you lost, child? Did you make a wrong turn? The day-care center is 300 miles that way, you know," he teased, jerking his head in some random direction.

"I'm going to kill you."

Even Jaune didn't believe his own words.

The tears of laughter streaming down the man's face weren't helping his confidence.

"I— I mean it!"

"I'm sure you do," the man snickered. The laughter came again, and this time, Jaune felt tears prickling his vision.

The knife fell from his hand. He felt his knees hit the ground, his head bowing in shame.

Several minutes passed before the laughter began to die down.

Silence.

"Say," the man whispered. Jaune snapped up, and his eyes locked with two black orbs. There was a look in the man's eye he couldn't quite identify, but which sent shivers down his spine.

"You're a real pretty little thing, aren't you?"

The serial killer had sat up now, his tongue flicking at his lips, a bit of drool sliding down his cheek.

"Oh…"

He'd begun a strange writhing motion.

Jaune didn't know what was happening, but it all looked very strange.

"S-stop that!"

"Oh yes, look at me like that— just like that…"

"I said stop it!"

The killer's body had leaned all the way forward now, his eyes as wide as saucers, his lips curving to a deranged grin. "Oh, the things I'd do to you if I weren't in this chair…"

To Jaune's horror, something bulged in the man's pants.

"I'd bend you over, little boy, I'd make you _scream_—"

He gasped. A little noise escaped him, as though he'd been punched in the gut, though Jaune hadn't touched his gut.

Instead, a knife had buried itself deep in the man's throat.

Jaune looked at his own hands in widening horror, then at the man's eyes, which lolled into the back of his skull.

=II=

A minute had passed, which should've been the first clue.

"Thoughts?" asked Cinder. Hazel stood leaning against the opposite wall, eyes closed.

"He'll succeed."

"You have a lot of faith. He _is_ merely a child."

"He isn't just any child. He will succeed."

Another minute. The isolation chamber was fantastic at preventing all sound from reaching the outside world, so neither of them had any idea as to the proceedings.

"If he isn't out by now…" Cinder hedged, staring at the door.

"He'll be out."

Yet another minute, and now the seconds themselves dragged through the still air.

Cinder allowed for another minute to pass, her eyes fixed firmly on the door. Jaune was capable of taking care of himself, but he _was_ still locked in the room with an experienced murderer. Bound, yes, but still dangerous.

As time trickled on, even the unflappable Hazel began to fidget.

A quarter of an hour passed like that.

"Let's go retrieve him," Cinder sighed. Although the larger man seemed reluctant to leave his post, he seemed to agree.

They opened the door to silence. Not the silence of a clear, forest glenn at midnight, nor the blank silence of awe or stupor. This was a broken silence.

A child huddled in the corner, wide, crimson eyes manic, tears running down his cheeks. He shivered uncontrollably. Every breath dragged, stealing substance from his body.

"C-Cinder?" he hiccuped. "I-is that you?"

She didn't know what possessed her to do so, but she dashed at him and wrapped her arms around his little body. He broke, then. Tear tracks which had dried up mere minutes ago were paved anew with salt and sadness.

"Shh…" whispered Cinder. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hazel scratching his head, as though patently uncomfortable with the whole ordeal. He didn't do tears.

_Go_, she mouthed. He did.

And so she held him close, crooned to him, and stroked his hair until shuddered turned still and the little boy dipped into unconsciousness in her arms. He deserved the rest.

=II=

"Who the fuck are you? You aren't—"

_Thunk_.

The second time wasn't as bad as the first, though he still dry heaved for almost a quarter of an hour after doing the deed.

=II=

"Hmm? Have they decided—"

_Thunk_.

The third time he didn't feel much. Only a sort of roiling sickness in his gut, though that passed with time. He looked a little pale— or so Cinder had informed him— but otherwise, no worse for wear.

=II=

"Do you ever enjoy it?" Jaune whispered to Hazel after they finished a particularly intense sparring session.

The larger man paused.

"No. Never. Though, even I admit— the skill is a necessity. Better you learn it now, child, than when you have no other options."

=II=

**6 Months Later…**

The airship sped through the night, racing across Remnant over indistinguishable forms in the shadowed dark.

"Where are we going?" yawned Jaune, sidling up to the window. They'd been flying for the better part of eight hours. Luckily, the plane had sanitation facilities.

Cinder smirked at the wheel. "You'll see. Prepare your weapon. We're visiting somewhere sponsored by our dear friends at the White Fang…"

His mentor was being purposefully vague, and he knew it. Settling down to a sitting position, he thought back to his progress thus far.

Every month brought monumental changes. He was certain he could wipe the floor with himself from a month ago. His semblance control had improved, his footwork, his swordplay. Even his physical attributes were improving, though they remained leagues behind any of his mentors. Hazel said he'd gain strength through puberty— though, apparently, that was a long ways away.

The child who'd first stepped foot into the castle was an unrecognizable memory.

Killing had, surprisingly, gotten easier. Practice made perfect, and he'd had much more practice in the art than he'd have liked. In combat, there could be no hesitation.

"How do you feel?"

He looked up. "Pretty good, I guess. I think I'm ready."

"Good. You'll need to be. Today is a true test."

Angling the steering wheel downward, she drove the ship into a steady descent. "It's a culmination of everything we've worked toward, Jaune. Today, we're going to test your skills against a resisting opponent."

"… resisting?"

She turned, eyeing him as she did. "An opponent shall be presented to you. He'll try to kill you, you'll show him the same courtesy. I hope you'll accomplish the task without any permanent injury, yes?"

To be honest, Jaune had been expecting something of the sort for months. It wasn't hard to guess the logical extension. Was he ready?

Memories of glassy eyes and knives jutting through broken chests filled his mind.

"I'm ready."

A whine like grinding metal filled the air, spluttering out as the ship touched solid ground.

"Follow me. Don't stray away, don't ask questions. I'll do that talking," Cinder commanded,

hopping up.

Nodding, Jaune complied.

They passed through a campground of white-pitched tarps, some flaring a red symbol on its sides which smudged, almost invisible, in the darkness. As Cinder walked, she bore the relaxed confidence of someone meant to be there, as though she were taking a stroll to the bathroom of her own home.

A few faunus were milling about and some shot them questioning looks, but none moved to stop them as they marched deeper into White Fang territory.

Soon, they arrived at a tent an order of magnitude larger than the rest. The sounds of a raucous, bustling crowd leaked out from within, spilling mostly through an illuminated entrance.

A faunus guard in full uniform stood at the front, armed with some sleek, black gun.

"We're here to register a fighter," Cinder smiled.

"M'am, registrations are closed," the guard replied.

"This is an exception… Sienna knows."

At her words, the guard raised an eyebrow, but stepped aside nevertheless.

"Talk to Rick, the emcee. He'll hook you up." He gestured to a man with a microphone sitting on a high platform beyond, overlooking something which couldn't be seen from this vantage point. Jaune could guess what it was by the sounds echoing through the room— steel on steel, cheering, the sounds of pained grunts.

Some sort of gladiatorial arena.

He was proven right as they approached the platform. Rick, a middle-aged man with a wispy goatee and a sagging belly, turned as they came.

"Ah, Cinder, our dearest guest!" he cried. "Welcome, welcome. And who may this fine gentleman be…?"

"A fighter," she declared, her voice soft. "Register him. We want him out there as soon as possible."

"After two rounds, then," Rick agreed, taking out a clipboard and jotting down a few notes. The sound of iron meeting skull reverberated in the room. Something cracked, and Jaune winced.

"Ah. One round, " Rick ammended, crossing something out and scribbling more.

"Nickname?"

"Pardon?"

"Every fighter requires a nickname," Rick explained, lifting his clipboard to display a bracket of names like "Dragon" or "Bones" or "King."

"Hmm…" Cinder mulled, scratching her chin. "How about… The Kid?"

Rick bit his lip and nodded, but didn't comment.

"The Kid?" Jaune repeated, incredulous. "That's got to be the least intimidating nickname possible!"

"Good. It suits you," laughed Cinder.

He huffed and turned away just in time to catch a man being carted off the arena in a stretcher.

"That's my cue," said Rick as he vaulted off of the platform and onto the ground. A spotlight materialized around him, and he plastered a showman's smile on his face.

"And next…. first, in the blue corner—he's a swordsman and Iaido black belt, 5'10 inches tall, hailing from Menagerie— THE BULL!"

The crowd roared its approval as a teenager with flaming red hair and an eyepatch made his way up the stage, a longsword in hand.

"In the red corner— our defending champion— he's a mixed martial artist and Huntsman holding an undefeated record of 12-0, standing 6'2 inches tall and hailing from Vale, THE RIPPER!"

Cheers erupted. Chants of "Ripper! Ripper! Ripper!" flowed through the room, and hundreds of stomping feet created the illusion of a thunderstorm. To his credit, Bull remained unfazed by the chatter, calmly unsheathing his blade.

Ripper, meanwhile, flexed his arms, and two gauntlets popped into form.

As the two fighters squared up, Jaune leapt onto the upper end of the bleachers to find a better view. He chose a seat next to a cat faunus girl gripping her armrest so tightly her knuckles were white.

"Begin!"

The Bull attacked first. The instant Rick stepped back, he charged, intent on running the defending champion through with a thrust. He crossed the distance in a blink, but his strike met nothing but air.

The Ripper had somehow shifted his body out of the way and now stood in a bladed stance, his body already loaded with a punch.

The blow smashed the Bull with such force it sent the man skidding off his feet, rolling twice on the ground before recovering. His arms, which he'd somehow managed to raise just in the to block the brunt of the strike, still sizzled and smoked.

The crowd gasped in appreciation. Jaune watched, eyes wide, careful not to miss anything. That was a clean a counterpunch as they came— a simultaneous attack, dodging and striking the overextended aggressor in a beautiful crescent blow. That might've lain Bull out cold had it not been for that last-minute block.

Watching other fighters and dissecting their movements proved immensely fascinating. He'd only ever seen Hazel fight before, and every movement was done in such a precise, orthodox, and careful manner that it was like watching a textbook flow in motion. Seldom did he ever see Hazel lose control or deviate from his tight style.

Which was the all-out brawl developing before him appeared all the more fascinating. The gauntlets, massive as they were, blocked and counterpunched with frightening speed. The Ripper stood in a southpaw stance and relied on counter left straights or left hooks to deal his damage. He was clearly technically proficient; he employed liberal use of combinations designed to throw fighters off, like jabbing with the left and landing a body hook with the same hand instead of following up with the traditional right overhand or high right hook. This was a seasoned, veteran boxer intent on capitalizing on every mistake, especially on the inevitable openings Bull created with every attack.

Bull, on the other hand, fought like a maniac.

There was a method to the madness— Jaune could see elements of traditional swordsmanship in that frenzy— but Bull had twisted it into something ferocious, using the principles of sword combat in the most aggressive way possible.

The problem was, he didn't understand the rules.

On more than one occasion after Jaune tried something fancy or innovative, Hazel would cut through his sloppy technique and instill in him an adage: "First know the rules, then distort them at your leisure."

Only with a rock-solid, master-level understanding of swordplay would Bull be able to adopt what he was attempting. That kind of understanding came only from years, sometimes decades of practice, time he clearly didn't have.

Ripper sensed it too. Holes in the Bull's game which had been masked by aggression became more apparent as time went on, and he'd slip in sly straights or jabs, connecting shots which not only forced the Bull back but also disrupted the rhythm of his attacks. The Bull was absorbing damage like a tank, but Jaune guessed he couldn't stand much longer.

Indeed, one well-placed uppercut after an overextended slash sent the Bull sprawling to the mat.

The crowd was in uproar, all chants and shouts.

To his surprise, the faunus girl beside him stood and added her voice to the mix. "Get up, Bull! You can do it! I believe in you! Get up!"

The groaning figure seemed to respond to her words, shakily getting to his feet and clenching his jaw with renewed vigor. The catgirl beside him cheered loudly at the sight.

When he re-engaged, he did so with fury. He was on his last legs, Jaune could tell, and so decided to put all of his remaining efforts into an all-out assault. If Ripper could weather the storm, it'd be over.

From the way Ripper shifted his posture and brought his arms higher in a defensive stance, Jaune could tell he knew it too. The miniature storm eventually subsided, and Ripper threw in a straight to counter one of the Bull's fading strikes. It landed square on the nose.

This time, the Bull didn't get back up.

"No… no!" the girl beside him screamed. She jumped down and made a dash for the stage, almost reaching the steps before being stopped by guards.

She must have said something convincing, because they let her pass. A few seconds later, she knelt beside Bull's comatose form before grabbing his arms and dragging him off the stage.

"You're next," whispered Cinder, a dark glint in her eye. "Try not to get knocked out, will you? I'd hate to have to drag you all the way home."

"I won't lose," Jaune promised. Bull had been ferocious, sure, but his technique left something to be desired. If he fought the man— or, teenager— he wasn't sure who'd win. He'd bet on himself, of course, what with the massive advantage his Semblance afforded, but he'd be physically weaker and less experienced.

Bull, however, had fought the champion— and put up a respectable, if sloppy, performance. Jaune rather doubted they'd throw him the top dog in his first fight.

"And next…" Rick's voice echoed, "in the blue corner… a duel knife wielder, 5'8 inches tall with a record of 6 wins, 3 losses, hailing from Vacuo— VIPER!"

The man was of slight build, with a thin, sallow face, but Jaune didn't let his opponent's stature fool him. The way those hands handled those knives spoke of years of practice.

"His opponent, making his debut tonight… a swordsman, 5'1, hailing from Vale— THE KID!"

He didn't expect the cheers that came as he stepped up to the stage. They only doubled in intensity when he stood into the light and surveyed the crowd.

"Ah, shit," Viper sighed, eyeing him. "They letting kids in now? Man, I don't want to do this to you, bud. I get it. You gotta hustle. But fighting here, now? I'm sorry, kiddo. I really am."

Jaune bristled at the man's words. "I'm going to beat you if you're not careful," he hissed, unsheating his blade in one stroke. The thin man opposite him just shrugged and assumed a fighting stance.

"Fighters, are you ready?" Rick asked. Jaune nodded. Viper did the same, a little dip of his head. "I'll make this quick," the man promised, which only incensed Jaune more.

"Begin!"

Jaune's Semblance kicked into full gear immediately. Perhaps the man's words had managed to goad him into something hasty, or perhaps this starting attack was a good idea to startle and off-balance his opponent. Time slowed in his perception, but to his opponent, it'd look like was moving at supersonic speeds.

Whatever the case, Viper didn't react until Jaune was but a foot from his body, his sword already arcing in for the kill.

Two rushed blades came up for defense— and froze.

Jaune slowed his Semblance to half-speed. Viper, expecting his block to catch a sword, remained braced— and caught nothing. A brief flicker of confusion crossed his face. He must've been wondering what he should do. Where was the strike? Should he return to normal position? Should he retreat, still blocking?

In that brief period of indecision, Jaune revved time to maximum pace.

A startled look crossed Viper's face. An instant later, blood red blossomed in a line up his cheeks. Jaune hopped back, putting some distance between him and his attacker.

Silence. Even the crowd, once raucous, turned quiet. Then—

The loudest cheers he'd heard yet erupted. Some people got to their feet, chanting, stomping their feet, shouting _his_ nickname— "Kid! Kid! Kid! Kid!"

These people loved their blood, apparently.

Viper, meanwhile, narrowed his eyes and wiped the blood from his face. "Teaches me to underestimate kids," he growled. "Come, boy. Next shot won't be so easy."

=II=

Cinder smiled as she watched her little protégé dismantle the man before him. Though only with 6 months of training, it was clear the two were in different leagues. Jaune had yet to receive so much as a scratch, while his opponent had wounds running up the whole of his body. The boy's unpredictable style, so jarring, had cuts and slashes materializing on Viper's body as though by magic.

The champion— Ripper, was it?— would've made for a more worthy challenge. The previous boy, Bull, hadn't been bad, but she had no doubt his aggressive style would be picked apart faster than even Viper by Jaune's blade.

This fight was winding to a close. Jaune delivered a final thrust which broke through Viper's armor, impaling an inch into the man's chest.

The thin duel wielder laughed, a hollow sound. "Alright. I concede. Good on you, kid."

Dear lord was the crowd raucous.

As Jaune bounded up to her, he wore the proudest little smile on his face. "Cinder! Cinder! Did you see that? I did it, I really did!"

"Good job," she agreed. "Cleanly done."

She didn't miss how the kid preened under her words, his chest puffing out as they walked back out of the arena.

Confidence was good. Arrogance, on the other hand…

She reminded herself to knock the boy down a few pegs at some later date. For now, he could relish his first victory.

=II=

"Why do you use a sword?" asked Dr. Watts, pacing before his workbench. Arrayed before him were a number of fancy-looking weapons, each chambered and segmented in tell-tale signs. He'd had enough classes with the doctor to know that each was liable to transform into another form with the click of a button.

Jaune, meanwhile, had nothing of the sort. He still wielded a pure, pristine blade out of a metal alloy.

"Hmm… I guess because I'm a beginner, and can't handle the higher-tech stuff?"

"You're not incorrect," acknowledged Watts. "But that's not the crux of the issue. You've heard of this infernal invention— the spork, yes?"

"Spork?"

"A hideous amalgamation of spoon and fork. Imagine a spoon with small, fork-like teeth near the top. By choosing to do two things at once, the spork achieves mediocrity in both. By all rules of design, the spork is awful."

Here, the doctor paused. "I'll grant, however, that most weapons arrayed before you are not sporks. Indeed— with modern technologies powered by Dust, each form of a multi-form weapon approaches near enough to its platonic ideal as a single weapon that having extra forms is no burden. Unlike the _spork, _whose mere existence offends the palate."

Strange distaste for certain kitchen utensils aside, the Doctor had a point. "Then if it's not because I'm too young or something, why can't I have these weapons?"

"Because, dear child," Watts drawled, twirling his mustache with one hand, "_You_ are the spork."

The tall man hissed the last word and shuddered after he'd said it, as though presence of the word on his tongue produced a gag reflex.

"You hardly know how to wield one weapon. How would you possibly deal with two? Three? Even four? You'd be awful with them. Most multi-form weapons, although capable of supporting each form by itself, are used in one designated primary form most of the time. Why? Because mastering one aspect is difficult enough. That being, said, however…"

Humming to himself, Watts waved a gloved hand, and each weapon flared to life. "Atlesian battle technology. We'll begin studying machine components every other day. I expect you to be able to assemble your own such weapon given a few years."

As Jaune pored over the flashy designs and pulsing Dust energy infused in each weapon, Doctor Watts spoke again, though this time a telling lilt edged into his voice.

"Who knows? Perhaps there'll be a day when we visit Atlas in person. And perhaps that day will come sooner than you might think."

=II=

It didn't take long for him to learn what the Doctor had been hinting toward.

"Cinder told me about your performance," smiled his mother, slicing "Well done, as usual."

"Thanks." Jaune reddened as he ladled more chicken broth into his mouth.

"I think you're ready to contribute."

"Huh?"

"To our cause, silly," she laughed. "What do you think about shadowing Cinder on a raid with the White Fang?"

He jumped up, his face brightening with excitement. "Raid? Where? I'll go!"

"Calm, Jaune. Calm. Deep breaths," giggled his mother. "You'll be hitting an outskirt of the SDC. It'll be a joint operation— Cinder will retrieve the Dust from that facility, the White Fang will free the faunus. A win-win. And, in theory, you'll be a spectator."

Upon seeing the distraught look on his face, she added, "but with a little more experience, perhaps you can have a fighting role in future missions."

"You won't regret this, mother," he swore through a mouthful of noodles.

=II=

The biggest shock of the night, however, was delivered by Cinder.

"You'll have a new neighbor," she declared. "She'll take a room near yours. Say hello."

A small head full of green hair framing a dark, pretty face poked out from behind Cinder's back. Two red eyes regarded him warily.

"Introduce yourself," Cinder suggested to her.

"Hi. I'm Emerald."

**A/N I'm sure you can guess who some of the characters featured in this chapter are. **

**Also, Jaune's progression will be similar to B.J. Penn's, if anyone is familiar. All-time great fighter who had a remarkably quick rise through the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu tournament circuit… **


	6. Book 1, Chapter 5

**A/N **

**Things are picking up in the story! Yay! **

**Note: Cinder isn't yet a Maiden, but her Dust manipulation is so fine-tuned and extensive that she can almost emulate one. **

**Also, replying to a reviewer who raised some valid points in post: this version of the White Fang is in the middle of radicalization. Their hatred of humans hasn't yet reached a spike, and Salem is working with them in an attempt to bring them under her control**, **which is why there has been some involvement thus far.**

**They aren't yet in a "kill all humans" mode-- only the "bad" ones-- though this obviously will change.**

**This willl be elaborated upon in future, but there's a reason the strike force in this chapter is small. The military branch of the White Fang is still in development. **

His neighbor for the indefinite future didn't appear to like him.

"Hi! I'm Jaune," he tried, affecting his most cheery tone. Cinder had left, expecting them to "talk to each other" and "bond." Emerald seemed as though she wanted to do neither.

"Nice to meet you." Her expression made it seem anything but.

He held out a hand and she shook it, dipping her head in the most perfunctory show of respect.

Needless to say, this was unnerving. He didn't know what it was, but people his age— girls, especially— seemed to just open up to him. Emerald, meanwhile, maintained a mildly miffed expression.

"Well… I'll see you around, I guess. Feel free to ask me if you have any questions!"

He smiled. Not just any smile, though; this smile had been drilled into him over several etiquette lessons with Cinder. The 'charm' smile had been used against even his teacher to great effect.

To his relief, the girl stared at him for a second, her eyes glazing over and her mouth opening a sliver. A second later, however, she shook herself, blinking rapidly. "I'll keep that in mind… is that all?"

"Sure. See you around, Emerald!"

She didn't return the sentiment as she made her way back down the winding staircase to her room, which was not twenty feet from his own.

Jaune wasn't sure how to feel about this development.

=II=

The next morning, he ate breakfast with his mother in the main hall. Some part of him expected Emerald to arrive as well, but she never did.

"Today's a big day," his mother commented, giving him a brief appraisal. "Are you ready?"

Today was the Schnee Dust Company raid. Cinder and he would leave in an hour's time to join with a White Fang group, forming the main party. The coalition would hit a Dust mine on the outskirts of Atlas, one unlikely to be heavily protected. It was more a gesture than anything, a training exercise.

One in which he wasn't expected to see action, he was acutely aware.

"I'm ready," he promised, hefting his sword and shield by the table. Hazel had only given him the shield a month ago, when he'd deemed Jaune's swordplay "adequate." Thus far, it'd made a significant impact. He doubted underpaid Atlesian guards would make it through Cinder, much less force him to use it.

"I expect good things. I know you won't disappoint me, Jaune," she smiled.

"Of course!"

Through the rest of breakfast, his eyes kept glancing to the double doors, hoping a certain shock of emerald hair might make an appearance. No such luck.

=II=

He asked Cinder where Emerald had been as they boarded the ship.

"Oh, her? She eats at the lower levels," his mentor had said, an odd quirk on her lips. "I wouldn't worry about it. Hmm… speaking of…"

She looked over his shoulder, and he turned. The girl herself was picking her way to the airship, two blades in hand.

"_She's_ coming along?"

"I trust you'll take good care of her, Jaune," Cinder laughed.

=II=

This time around, the ship was a behemoth. It dwarfed the passenger ship they'd taken to the White Fang arena, with several more compartments and a bulky body. This was a ship for war, bulky enough to take hits and large enough to carry fighters.

He and Emerald were shuffled into a passenger compartment surrounded by windows in all directions. It was always fascinating to see the Land of Darkness cross over, bit by bit, into forested areas. Small ferns sprouted at first, then larger plants, and soon, they skimmed above a full rainforest without a hint of the desolation they'd left.

Emerald didn't say a word. Instead, she took to leaning against a windowpane, staring out over the vast expanse. Half an hour passed like that, both of them in quiet introspection.

Jaune tingled. He could feel it in his stomach, a roiling, upsetting unrest. This was his first true mission. Everything prior had been training or controlled, building him up to this moment.

True, he wasn't even supposed to fight. That knowledge didn't curtail the nervousness bubbling within him.

"I don't need you to protect me," Emerald said, breaking his train of thought. He blinked. It was the first thing she'd said in near half an hour.

"Cinder told me to," he replied, projecting his most reassuring smile. "But don't worry! I'm sure it won't come to that. She said we shouldn't even need to fight! The adults will take care of it."

"Hmph." She turned away.

And the radio silence resumed.

Jaune sighed. It'd be a long couple hours.

The door opened, admitting a smiling Cinder. "We'll be landing shortly to retrieve the White Fang operatives before continuing onward."

True to her word, the plane began dipping downward. Hopefully, the company they were retrieving would prove less hostile than Emerald.

=II=

Blake hadn't been sure what to expect when Adam told her she'd be taking part in a White Fang mission. She'd never been on one before, and— truth be told— she wasn't sure she _should _be.

If Adam hadn't gotten injured in his last bout, he'd probably be in her place. Adam was the better fighter, the better leader.

The lady with the yellow eyes told her to enter the back compartment, whatever that meant. Was this silver door the entrance? Shrugging, she pried it open.

Two people were already sitting inside, a dark-haired boy and a green-haired girl. The boy perked up as she entered.

A dazzlingly handsome face framed by raven-black locks greeted her, replete with a charming smile. Something about him tickled her memory, but she wasn't sure what. She'd have remembered that face if she'd seen it before— of that she was sure.

"— and you?"

He was saying something. Too late, she realized she'd been staring. She could feel her face heating up as she stammered, "I'm sorry— what was that?"

He laughed, his voice like choir bells. "Hi! I'm Jaune. And you are…?"

"B-blake."

He held out a hand, and she shook it firmly.

Maybe this trip wouldn't be so bad after all.

=II=

A cold pit settled into the depths of Emerald's stomach as she watched her rival chatting up the cat faunus.

He was Cinder's first priority. Her benefactor had made as much clear the first day she'd arrived. Emerald, apparently, was the second option, a backup to be discarded or replaced when the need arose.

Her annoyance grew as she watched him turn that megawatt smile on the girl. The little cat faunus had adopted that dazed, unfocused smile. She wasn't sure the girl— Blake, was it?— was even aware there was another person in the room. Even in the few hours she'd been in the castle, she'd seen that look on more than a few of the younger serving girls— and some of the older ones, too.

She didn't understand the appeal.

True, he was pretty— irritatingly so. Strong enough, she supposed, though nowhere near Hazel. Tyrian could probably finish him within five seconds, and she suspected Doctor Watts, the strange, old curmudgeon, had tricks up his sleeves too. Cinder? She'd roast him alive.

Emerald held an image of Jaune being spit-roasted, screaming, longer than she probably should have.

Whatever the case, she'd _prove_ she was the better choice. He could chat up girls all he liked. In that time, she'd be training.

And one day— in the near future, she hoped— she'd take his spot in Cinder's heirarchy.

=II=

"Oh! Whatever happened with that Bull guy? Is he alright?"

"He's fine. He was hurt, but it wasn't anything too bad."

"That's good. He had some real skill! I think I've seen that swordsmanship and style before in old World Championship fighters!"

She smiled. "Yeah, he's really cool. I want to be as strong as him one day."

"I'm sure you will be. What weapon do you use?"

Blake unsheathed a sword as black as night. Jaune gasped as he pored over its lines, which seemed to absorb the light from the room. "Can— can I touch it?"

At her nod, he traced a reverential finger along the blade's spine. It was cool, like a fresh winter's breeze. "It's beautiful…" he whispered.

"Th-thanks…"

When he glanced up, Blake had turned red again. She looked adorable.

"This is your captain speaking," a voice intoned over static. "Prepare yourselves. We'll be landing within ten minutes."

"Here," he smiled, returning the weapon. "I'm a bit of a sword nut. Weird, I know. Don't mind me."

"Not at all. It's not weird! I think it's kinda cool…"

"R-really?"

"If you two are done with your little date," drawled a voice. Blake spluttered as Emerald stood, her weapons at the ready. "We have a mission to prepare for, remember?"

"Hey, why are you so moody?" Jaune shot back, eyes narrowing. "What's your problem?"

"Hmph."

Sighing, he got to his feet. "She does have a point, I guess. Are you ready?"

"Um… yes?" Blake tried, whitening. "Yes."

The tilt of the plane signalled descent. A White Fang operative in full white-and-gray patterned combat gear thrust open the door. "Head out to the main compartment."

They followed him to a holding area with a massive, corrugated wall. Jaune guessed it'd fold out when they landed.

"Trainees will be escorted by Anteater and Crow."

Two uniformed faunus stood at the ready, decked out in full combat gear.

"We'll make this quick," Cinder purred. "Blast them first, ask questions later. We'll catch them off guard in a blitz. I expect minimal bloodshed— on our end, that is. Are we clear?"

A chorus of "Yes, ma'am!" resounded through the hold.

"Good."

The taller of the two operatives turned to address Jaune, Emerald, and Blake, his face hidden behind a blacked-out mask.

"Stay behind me at all times. Is that understood?"

Jaune nodded. He assumed his companions did the same, because the man leaned back, satisfied.

Now came that awkward phase between mission orders and landing. Here was a minute which allowed doubt to fester and spawned butterflies in empty stomachs. Jaune found himself tapping his chair in rhythm, his hands buzzing with untapped energy.

Blake, on the other hand, had taken to clenching the metal so hard Jaune was worried she'd dent it.

The aircraft slowed, and the strike team stood as one. As the bay doors opened, they poured out into the open.

Jaune followed his designated escort as they crossed into a barren area. There wasn't much in the way of vegetation, and even less fauna. It reminded him somewhat of the Land of Darkness, though more dreary and dull. The only sign of life lay ahead, a yellowish hue emanating from a large, circular cave, the sound of metal striking metal echoing from within.

As they approached, he noticed a chain-link fence followed by one topped by barbed wire encircling the premises. A few figures in black fatigues poked out from two stone towers within.

"This is Schnee Dust Corporation property!" a voice hollered, amplified by some sort of microphone. "Trespassing is strictly prohibited. Should your party continue to advance, persuant to Atlas military law, we _will_ open fire."

"Light them up," whispered Cinder.

Aura blazed to life as the White Fang's weaponry carved a black brand across fence metal. The figure at the top of the watchtower collapsed, screaming, and toppled headfirst to the ground below.

An instant later, the piercing wail of an alarm shattered the silence. The strike team increased the pace to sprinting, springing inside the holes they'd created in the fence even as bodies began pouring out from the mine.

"Shit," someone cursed.

Jaune had been told this mission was as close an event as possible to literal training. An out-of-the-way SDC mine on the outskirts of Atlas?

One squadron of day soldiers should've been the extent of the resistance.

The wall of soldiers arrayed before him must have numbered a hundred. Then, a thudding reached his ears like grinding gears.

Something massive and mechanical emerged from within. Its body was an amalgamation of what must have been hundreds of thousands of metal parts, all working on coordination to produce a burgeoning battle suit.

"Some Atlesian nonsense…." muttered Cinder, stepping back into a fighting stance. "I'll take the machine. Wipe the soldiers."

As the strike force fanned out around her, tensing, a voice boomed out from within the tangle of metal.

"It would seem our mole was correct!"

A scarred man climbed up from within, baring a set of yellowed teeth. His suit was tailored in white clothing, with military stars lining the lapel. He bore the mark of an Atlesian Lieutenant, with the insignia on his cap to boot.

"It's your unlucky day, terrorists. A little birdie told us the White Fang were bringing an elite strike force along with their most promising young blood," he purred, his voice amplified across the distance. "What a perfect chance to kill two birds with one stone, hmm? We'll christen the debut of this prototype Paladin with your blood! But before that… mole, if you would?"

A series of clicks rang out from behind Jaune's back, followed by a startled cry. Then, a body dropped to Jaune's left.

He leapt back, blade leaping to his hand. At first, there appeared no visible injury, but closer inspection revealed a faking hole through the back of his helmet. Anteater— one of the two guards he'd been assigned. Gun wounds had cut through his aura from the back, depleting him through one of his weakest points and ending him in mere moments.

Which meant…

His blood chilled as another two White Fang uniforms dropped with startled cries, clutching themselves in pain. Cinder turned, eyes aflame with fury, but Jaune finished the job first.

Crow's hand, gun and all, lay severed on the ground. To Jaune's surprise, no aura shielded the limb, allowing his sword to cleave cleanly through.

Another thrust pierced through the man's chest. He smiled as he died, his lips twisted in sadistic glee.

"Aw… that's too bad. Not to worry, my faunus friend."

Gears ground as the mechanical beast folded over him, whirring and revving. Rows of gun barrels shot out from its joints, each bearing the low orange tinge of Dust.

"I'll finish them off for you."

Not good.

How many members of the strike force remained? Twenty, maybe? He, Emerald, and Blake huddled into a circular formation, ready to defend themselves as soldiers fanned out around them.

The only person who appeared calm was Cinder. She stood in a near lackadaisical stance, hand on her hips. Only now did he realize she wore her usual outfit— a dark red dress which hugged her curves, leading up to a plunging neckline.

To his surprise, the Atlesian Lieutenant tensed at the sight of her. "I want Squadrons 1 and 2, to me! Lock on the woman!"

"Oh?" Cinder crooned, arching an eyebrow. "So you've heard of me."

"No," barked the man, all playful pretense abandoned. "But anybody insane enough to wear _that_ to a gunfight…"

"Good call."

Two reams of white-hot flame burst into her hands following flashes of flame Dust.

"A pity it won't make a difference."

The machine leaned back, undoubtedly charging some massive blow.

Jaune blinked. He'd been mistaken. It wasn't preparing to attack.

No, something had struck it so hard and so fast it'd tilted almost completely to its side.

A red glow emanated from the metal in front, which gushed off of the machine like liquid.

"Argh!" The Lieutenant returned to his feet with dexterity Jaune didn't think the machine was capable of. "Shoot, you fools! Shoot!"

If only there was something to aim at.

Cinder flowed not like a river but an avalanche. When confronted with an assault of that caliber, no person would lock onto an individual patch of falling snow and think to fight back.

No; when faced with an avalanche, _run_.

Cinder tore through the men, burying them in their own molten bones. She became a dragon of white and red, tearing a crimson swathe and swallowing her victims hole. Even Jaune, aided by a Time-slowing Semblance and keen eyes, only tracked the trail of flaming devastation she left behind her.

Only by inducing heavy time dilation could he perceive her as though at normal speeds.

She dealt her damage in a variety of ways— punches, kicks, elbows, all delivered in a fluid symphony of movement. A spinning backfist caught an Atlesian soldier in the face, shattering his skull, while that same momentum carried into a wheel kick which damn near decapitated another. As two other soldiers of the remaining few who hadn't yet fled tried to intercept her, she waved a hand, and a wall of white-hot flame caught them mid-swing. When it subsided, they'd been charred to bones.

Her companions were holding their own, though mostly because she'd caused such a massive distraction. They mowed down opposition on either side while she cleaved a straight line through the middle of the pack, heading directly for the man in the machine suit.

Several hundred tons of metal pivoted.

The Lieutenant had elected to flee. He didn't get far.

A flash of red uprooted a metal leg at the joint, collapsing the metal into a molten puddle. Flashes of fire and ash hugged the body, moving in a dash up to the cockpit and dissolving its frame all the while.

Cinder stopped for a moment with both feet planted atop the cockpit windows, a familiar smirk gracing her face.

Fire exploded out in a halo of blinding white. It was as though she'd set off a firebomb directly on the chest of the Lieutenant.

Jaune winced. The man must've died instantly.

A blur of motion in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Several Atlesian soldiers had broken through the ranks of the White Fang squad, and were dashing at top speed toward them.

There was no hatred or anger or rage in their eyes— only desperation.

They wanted to use he, Blake, and Emerald, the future prospects, as human shields, he realized— bargaining chips to ensure they escaped this ordeal alive. There were four in total, each looking more bedraggled than the last.

"I'll take right, you two take left," he called. Blood pumped in raw circuits through his veins. Watching Cinder fight had riled him up, and some fighting spirit within him yearned for battle. Someday, it'd be _him_ crushing giant machines to their knees, wiping out rows of people with the barest of effort.

For now, he'd settle for two semi-trained soldiers.

They ran at him with combat machetes, probably because they wanted to retrieve him alive. Bullets were more volatile and carried the risk of killing their bargaining chip. If Jaune had to pick, he'd take the knives. Swordplay was the more entertaining of the two.

He leapt at the first soldier, who brought up his machete to parry Jaune's strike. The man must've been caught off guard; he must've seen Jaune as an easy target. Whatever the case, the strength behind his parry was so insignificant that Jaune's stroke cleaved a clean line through the blade's path, knocking it from the man's hand.

Eyes widening, he leapt back, pulling a gun from his belt as his fellow soldier tried his luck against Jaune's sword.

Thus far, his shield hadn't seen any use. Other than deflecting a few stray bullets, he hadn't felt the need to deploy it. He was used to either dual-wielding his sword or having a free arm out for balance, so the weight of this new piece of gear felt foreign on his arm.

He'd need to learn to use it, he supposed. And what better practice dummy than with a soldier locked in a life-or-death battle?

Grinning, he deflected the man's slash and shoved his right arm into the man's chest. He struck with his whole body behind the blow and was rewarded with a satisfying crack followed by a shrill scream. The soldier flew back, his sword long forgotten, chest caving in at odd angles.

Dead, already? Sure, the man had no aura— he was probably some lower-level grunt— but _one _blow?

Jaune took a moment to survey Blake and Emerald. Blake moved with a grace and coordination defying her age, evading strikes and dishing out her own at a steady clip. She seemed to be holding her own.

Emerald also appeared to be carrying her weight, though through a different style entirely.

She was overwhelming a man double her size and triple her age through ferocity and aggression alone.

Her weapons moved in large, scything arcs, allowing her opponent no room to breathe as he staggered back, struggling to avoid her attacks. Her pace increased as she advanced, twirling and spinning in what appeared the most aggressive dance he'd ever seen. Hazel had a saying: You can't fault results. Although unorthodox, her method _was_ successful, and the bloody tears she carved on her opponent's body proved it.

Instinct brought his arm up, his sword held flat in his grip. Just in time— a Dust projectile deflected off of the side, scattering to the ground below.

His first assailant hadn't died. After downing the second, he'd forgotten all about the disheveled man before him, holding up his gun with a trembling hand.

Still alive, annoyingly enough. He'd remedy that.

He leapt in a zigzag, strafing bullets and closing in on his target. The soldier's gun kept firing until the bitter end. Even as Jaune ran him through and tore the blade out, leaving a bloody hole through the man's body, his hands kept squeezing the trigger— to no effect.

The silence of a won battle descended upon them. Up ahead, a few of the remaining White Fang veterans were heading into the mines.

"There are a few hundred captive faunus within," explained Cinder, walking up to him. It was strange watching her saunter leisurely when moments before she'd been barely visible to the naked eye. "We, however, are done here."

She gestured to the sky, where a much larger ship lowered itself slowly to the earth. A cargo ship of some kind, Jaune guessed. Only after the battle would the White Fang bring its long-haul large-scale transport ships. Such a large target would've been shot down by Schnee anti-air defenses within seconds.

"That's our cue. Emerald? Come along, will you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Cinder pursed her lips. "Cinder, dear. I'm not yet so old."

"Yes, ma'— Cinder."

"You're leaving?" a voice whispered. He turned to Blake, who sat shivering on the ground, her face a pale white.

Jaune recognized that expression. He'd wore it himself mere months ago. She bore the brunt of someone unused to killing. So he acted on instinct, wrapping an arm around her little body and hugging her close, much like Cinder had done for him.

To his surprise, she responded by hugging him in return before leaning her head against his chest.

"Don't be too long," Cinder smirked, before tugging Emerald away and up into the ship. The green-haired girl surveyed he and Blake with a glance of mild disgust.

The cat faunus took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself. She was already taking it much better than he had, braving the maelstrom of emotion with a steely expression.

"That was hard," she finally gasped. "I thought it'd be hard— Adam told me it'd be— but watching— watching him go down like that—and from my sword—"

He didn't know what to say, so he hugged her tighter instead. "I know," he whispered. "I know what it feels like. You'll get through it. We'll make it through together."

Moments passed in comfortable silence.

When Blake pulled away, some color had returned to her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she whispered. " I don't know what got into me."

"No worries," he smiled, standing. "Hey— I have to go, but keep in touch, okay?"

She nodded, though her gaze was distant, lost in a whirlwind of scattered thoughts. Even as the airship pulled away, she kept kneeling, eyes blank, staring at a patch on the ground where she felled a person for the first time.

**A/N **

**Haven't ended may chapters on a sad note, but here we are. **

**So Blake isn't taciturn Blake yet because she has no reason to be. She isn't the jaded teenager she is at the beginning of RWBY. Here, she's just a little girl. She'll seem OOC because she hasn't become Blake yet. **

**We might see RWBY Blake make an appearance, but that won't be for a number of chapters… no spoilers! **

**Truth be told, the last half-ish of this chapter was more necessary character introduction/action than anything. Next chapter will include a 2-year time skip, as well as the much-awaited Junior World Championships, which I'm looking forward to writing much more… **

**Featuring some familiar characters, as well as a Jaune aging into adolescence— and the personality changes that come along with it. **


End file.
